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A Latin-Quarter Courtship 


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A 


Latin-Quarter Courtship 

AND OTHER STORIES 


HENRY HARLAND 

AUTHOR or 

“Grandison Mather,” “Mrs. Peixada,” “ Mea Culpa,” 
“The Cardinal’s SnufF-Box,” etc.^ 



> ) ^ ^ 

NEW YORK ’’ ’ 

STREET & SMITH 

238 William Street 




THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two COHfest RECeiVED 

OCT. 7 1901 

COPYHIQHT ENTRY 

7. /7o/ ; 

CLASS Cf-XXa No. 

/ 

COPY a 


Copyright, 1896, 

By CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. 


Copyright, 1901, 

By STREET & SMITH 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A Latin-Quarter Courtship, - - - i 

Mr. Sonnenschein’s Inheritance, • - 191 

Lilith, - - ^ - - - - 227 

Mrs. Ormizon’s Dinner Party, - - 248 


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A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP.* 


“ 'Tis thus that an ardent youngster makes 
The Latin Quarter a land of love.” 


— Edmund Clarence Stedman, 


after Victor Hugo. 

I. 



FTER Stephen Ormizon had put the finishing 


^ ^ touches to the last page of his novel, A Voice 
from the Wilderness .^ — which he did in Paris, early in 
August, 1885, — he was anxious, for precautionary 
reasons that we need not enter into here, to have a 
copy made of the manuscript ; and to this end he 
advertised for a copyist in the Morning News. 
The post brought him thirteen replies : ominous 
number. Of these, six were hopelessly bad in the 
prerequisite of penmanship. Six were edifying 
specimens of English as she can be wrote, when 
venturesome and intrepid Ftenchmen seriously 
bend their minds to it. The thirteenth, also, ap- 
peared to be of native authorship ; but it was 
feasible. Written in a delicate feminine hand, 

* Formerly “A Land of Love,” originally published in 
Lippincott’s Magazine. 


2 A LA r IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

Upon paper that was haunted by the mere ghost 
of a sweet smell, it ran thus : 

“ No. — , Rue Soufflot, August 8, 1885. 

“ Sir, — In response to the enclosed advertise- 
ment, cut from the Morning News of yesterday, I 
beg leave to say that I should very much like, to 
make the copy which you desire, if you infer 
from this example that my handwriting will be 
suitable. 

“ Very respectfully yours, 

“ D. Personette. 

“ To Monsieur S. O., Office of the 
M or fling News.*' 

“ I guess,” said Ormizon to himself — “ I guess D. 
Personette is my man ; though, on second thoughts, 
D. Personette is probably a woman. I wonder 
whether she is an old woman or a young woman, a 
pretty woman or an ugly woman, a married woman 
or a single woman, or a widow. This,” sniffing 
at the paper, — “ this perfume suggests something 
rather nice. So does the chirography. It’s elegant 
and graceful, and at the same time free from 
those nonsensical hair-lines and flourishes. Yes, 
I suspect . . . Still, you can’t be sure ; and quite 
possibly she’s not a woman, after all. These 
Frenchmen often write ladylike hands, and scent 
their letters as they do their gloves and handker- 
chiefs. Well, at any rate, I shall soon find out ; 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


3 


for I’ll go at once and pay D. Personette a 
visit.” ^ 

He had his boots blacked, and put on his best 
frock-coat. There was no telling what sort of per- 
son this Personette might be ; and he surmised 
that he should perhaps want to create a favorable 
impression. If she were by chance a young and 
pretty woman, now, you understand — ! Then he 
left his house, and after a walk of five or fewer 
minutes — for he himself dwelt in Rue Gay-Lussac 
— was catechising the concierge of No. — , Rue 
Soufflot. 

“ Monsieur Personette ? ” he demanded, in an 
off-hand way. 

As the conclusion of some debate with himself, 
he had resolved to assume, for the purposes of a 
working hypothesis, the masculinity of his cor- 
respondent ; impelled to do so in part, it may be, 
because, secretly hoping that the truth was other- 
wise, he thus avoided from the outset the risk of 
a disappointment. 

“ Monsieur Personette ?” the concierge rejoined, 
with a dubious shrug and gesture. “ Mademoiselle 
Personette, you wish to say, is it not monsieur ? ” 

“ Ah, yes ; precisely ; Mademoiselle Personette. 
A quel etage ? ” 

And so she was a woman, in point of fact. Yet 


4 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


— mademoiselle ? Dire potentialities resided in that 
title mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Personette ? A 
vision of ancient spinsterhood, gray, tall, angular, 
ascetic, with thin lips and a perpetual frown, clad 
in neat though rusty alpaca, flitted rapidly before 
our hero’s mental eye. Mademoiselle Personette. 

. . Ah, well, it didn’t much matter one way or 
the other ; and, anyhow, time would show. 

“ Cinquieme a gauche," the concierge had mean- 
while announced, and retired within his den. 

Ormizon tugged up five slippery flights of stairs, 
redolent of beeswax, turpentine, and bygone cook- 
ery, and pulled the tasseled bell-cord that dangled 
outside the door at the left of the topmost landing. 
The door at the right was decorated with a tin 
sign, proclaiming, “ M. Maccarin, Dentiste Ameri- 
cain." It didn’t look like a very American name ; 
but it gave Ormizon for an instant a glow of corn- 
patriotic feeling. 

“ Mademoiselle Personette, is she at home ? ’’ he 
asked of the woman who presently opened to him, 
doubtful whether this might not be Mademoiselle 
Personette herself. 

Ah, oui, monsieur," she answered, with that 
peculiar Parisian inflection which no combination 
of letters can be made to render, and which seems 
to give to “ Ah, oui," the force of “ Why, of 


A LATINO-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


5 


course. You ought to have known it.” “ Take 
the pain, monsieur, to enter into the salon, and to 
seat yourself.” 

Obviously, this was not Mademoiselle Personette. 
He handed her his visiting-card, and added, “ Say 
that it is the gentleman who advertised in the 
Morning News'" 

“ Ah, oui, monsieur ; le Mawnee Noose^' she 
repeated, with a toss of the head, to show that she 
understood ; and, dropping a curtsey, vanished. 

After she was gone, he sat down, and began to 
look around him. 


II. 

It was rather a pretty, though a very modest, 
little room, this salon ; a bright, cheerful little 
room ; triangle-shaped, or nearly so, as such a 
number of rooms in Paris are. The walls were 
panelled in white and gold ; though the white had 
begun to turn yellow, and the gold to tarnish, — in 
some places, indeed, to scale off. An immense 
looking-glass, in a gilt frame sculptured with 
flowers and leaves and grotesque grinning faces, 
surmounted the mantel, by the aid of which Ormi- 
zon gave a touch or two to his cravat, and subdued 
a refractory lock of hair. By chains, from the cen- 


6 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

ter of the ceiling, swung a large old-fashioned 
lamp, of bronze and porcelain, with a shade big 
enough for an umbrella. A flood of sunshine 
pouring in through the open windows did a great 
deal to atone for a certain scantiness of furniture, 
and supplied the place of a carpet upon the highly- 
polished floor. An upright piano, with a lot of 
music piled on top of it, an engraving of Titian’s 
Flora, two little landscapes in oil, a photograph of 
the Cathedral at Rouen, and a plaster bust of Vic- 
tor Hugo, spoke for the fine arts ; while a well- 
filled book-case represented letters. The air bore 
a faint, elusive, aromatic odor, something like san- 
dal-wood, something like dried rose-leaves, the 
source of which .Ormizon could not determine, but 
which, as he afterward found out, issued from a 
pot-pourri of old red Kaga, on the center-table, 
under the hanging lamp. He was trying, not very 
successfully, to deduce from these surroundings 
some more definite idea of their proprietress than 
he had got already from the sound of her name, 
when the door opened, and — 

“ Why, Mr. Ormizon ! ” cried an agreeable 
womanly voice, in which surprise and pleasure 
were evenly blended. 

In a twinkling Ormizon was on his feet and half- 
way across the room. He saw before him a de- 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 


7 


cidedly pretty, plump little lady, perhaps thirty 
years of age, whose face was wreathed in smiles, 
and whose hands were extended toward him in a 
manner that betokened great and genuine cordi- 
ality, mingled with considerable bewilderment and 
wonder. 

“ Why, Miss — why, Dr. — Gluck ! ” he stam- 
mered. , “ Why — well — well, I declare ! ” 

Then he took possession of the proffered hands ; 
and they stood togethet;, speechless, waiting each 
apparently for the other to commence an explana- 
tion. 

“ Well — there — sit down — do,” finally ejaculated 
the vivacious Dr. Gluck, pushing him toward a 
chair. “ And, for mercy’s sake, tell me what this 
means.” 

“I’m sure it surpasses my powers of elucidation,” 
he confessed, nodding his puzzled head. “ You’re 
the last person I expected to find here. I called 
to see a certain Mademoiselle Personette — D. Per- 
sonette, she subscribes herself. Unless that’s one 
of your noms de guerre — ” 

“Oh, no. That’s Denise. You see, Zelie — 
Z^lie’s the maid who let you in — she thought Den- 
ise was at home ; and when she discovered her 
mistake she came to me and gave me your card, — 
see, here it is, — and when I read your name, — Mr. 


8 ' A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

Stephen Ormizon, — well, you may just imagine ! 
But I couldn’t believe that it was really you until 
I actually beheld you seated here. And even now, 
— oh, it’s too good to be true. I’m not sure even 
now but you may be a ghost, an hallucination.” 

“ I’m a pretty substantial one, I give you my 
word. But you — how — what — why, I didn’t dream 
you were in Paris. I had an idea you were in 
Vienna, or Berlin, or somewhere. Wasn’t it Vien- 
na you were going to when you bade us all 
good-by ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; but, then, you needn’t have expected 
me to take root in Vienna. I left there ages ago. 
I’ve been here — let me see — ever since — why, it 
must be two years, almost. But you — have you 
dropped straight out of the clouds ? Or where do 
you come from ? And when did you arrive ? And 
how long are you going to stay ? And everything ? 
It — it’s the most extraordinary coincidence I ever 
heard of in my life, upon my honor ! ” 

“ If you want to be correct, and complete the 
situation, you should observe, with the air of hav- 
ing made a discovery, that it shows how small the 
world is. That’s the reflection cut and dried for 
just such emergencies. But it is odd, joking 
aside. I arrived clear back in May — the first week 
in May. I came from Italy — from Rome — where 


A LATIN--QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


9 


I had been spending the winter, and basking un- 
der the Italian skies, which shed rain-water upon 
us almost every day. . . . But to think ! I never 
knew of anything more exasperating. It makes 
me want to beat my breast and rend my garments. 
Well, it’s just my luck.” 

“ Why, what ? What's the matter ? ” the doctor 
inquired, in evident alarm. 

“ Matter ! Why, to think of all this precious 
time that I have lost — of all these weeks that I 
might have been enjoying in your society — if I had 
only had an inkling that you were here.” 

“ Oh, well, never mind. No use crying over 
spilt milk. Besides, we’ll make up for it. Just 
fancy the jollifications we shall have now ! ” 

“Yes — except that I’ve got to go home next 
month.” 

“ Oh, is that so ? ” — with falling voice. 

“ Yes ; I’ve engaged my passage for the 26th.’* 

“ Oh, dear ! that is too bad. But — but you can 
postpone it, can’t you ? ” 

“ Alas, I’m afraid not. I’ve been away nearly a 
year already ; and, besides, I’ve got business to 
attend to in New York.” 

“ Oh, well, we’ll simply have to make the most 
of the meanwhile, then ; that’s all. And we’ll do 
it, never fear. To-day— to-day is the 8th, isn’t 


lO 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 


it? And between now and the 26th of September 
— why, there’s a lifetime ! But tell me, how — oh, 
yes, I remember. You came to see Denise. But 
what — what in the world can you want to see 
Denise about ? ” 

“ Why, yesterday, don’t you know, I advertised 
in the Morning News for a person to do some 
copying, and — ” 

“ Oh ! Then you — you are S. O. — the myste- 
rious S. O. Well, I never!'' And the doctor 
broke into a merry peal of laughter. 

“ I can’t say that I see the joke,” Ormizon com- 
plained. 

Repressing her mirth, “ Well, it isn’t exactly a 
joke^" the doctor admitted. “ But Denise and I, 
we’ve speculated so much about who S. O. might 
be, and what he was like, and everything — and then 
to have it turn out to be you — -you — well, it is too 
funny.” 

And she went off in a new peal of laughter. 

“ I’m glad it affords you so much amusement, 
I’m sure,” he said, nettled a little. 

“ Oh, there ; you needn’t get on your dignity ; 
for it’s entirely charming, too. Do you know, we 
conceived of you — just fancy ! — as a wretched old 
Englishman, who took snuff, and had a red nose, 
and great bushy gray whiskers. And we thought 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


II 


your name was - Solomon Oglesby, or something 
like that. And — oh, if Denise were only here i 
She— she’ll be delighted.” 

‘‘Will she, really? Well, that’s good. . . . 

And now, by the bye, don’t you think the proper 
moment has arrived for you to inform me who 
Denise is ? ” 

“Why, Denise — why, she’s Mademoiselle Per- 
sonette, of course.” 

“That much I had already conjectured. I 
mean, who is Mademoiselle Personette ! And how 
is she related to you ? ” 

“ Oh, she’s not related. She — she’s my chum, 
and my dearest friend, and my protegee, and — oh, 
it’s a long story, all about Denise.” 

“Well, go on. Tell it to me. Do.” 

“ Well, it begins away back at the time of my 
arrival here in Paris. I went to a horrid little pen- 
sion in the Rue Vanneau, kept by a regular old cat 
whose name was Madame Minoir ; and there I met 
Denise. She was boarding there, and we had seats 
next to each other at the table. She had recently 
lost her mother, who was an American lady ; and 
the poor little thing was completely broken down 
in health and spirits. She did look so pathetic 
and interesting, in her mourning, with her pale face 
and great dark eyes, that I was drawn to her from 


12 


A LATIN-QUAIiTER COURTSHIP. 


the very first. Sb — well, I began to take French 
lessons of her ; and I made her submit to my treat- 
ment ; and we fell desperately in love with each 
other, and vowed never to separate, and all that ; 
and finally, about a year ago, more or less, we 
rented this apartment, and set up housekeeping 
together. It’s awfully jolly, and free, and inde- 
pendent ; perhaps a trifle unconventional ; but I’m 
old enough to chaperon us both.” 

“ I should think it would be delightful. And 
you — I suppose you are carrying on your studies, 
of course, and getting wiser and wiser every day ? ” 
Well, I’m working pretty hard — yes. I have a 
clinic of my own in diseases of the ear ; and then 
I’m going into animal magnetism, mesmerism, hyp- 
notism, and that sort of thing, a good deal. Some 
time I’ll tell you all about it. I dare say you’ve 
heard of Charcot’s experiments, — haven’t you ? — 
and all the extraordinary results he has obtained ? 
AVell, I’m immensely interested in following them. 
I believe they will lead to a revolution in the theory 
and practice of medicine, and elevate it from the 
plane of mere empiricism to that of an authentic 
science. Ahem ! You smile. Well, I remember, 
you never could take my profession seriously. . . . 
Denise, she teaches. English and French, you 
Lnow. English to the natives, and French to the 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


13 


English and Americans. But just now she isn’t 
very busy. Toward the end of summer the town 
is nearly empty ; and so it’s Denise’s dull season. 
She was very glad when she saw your advertise- 
ment ; though she was afraid she wouldn’t stand 
much chance of getting the work. We supposed 
you’d have so many applications.” 

“ Yes, I had thirteen ; and very amusing some 
of them were. Hers was the only one I paid the 
least attention to.” 

“ And isn’t it fortunate that you did so ? Other- 
wise — ! Dear, dear ! I can hardly believe my 
eyes even now. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if 
you were to vanish into thin air this very instant,” 
said the doctor, laughing. 

“You take the notion very cheerfully. To me, 
it wouldn’t be a laughing matter.” 

“ Oh, no ; nor to me, either. I only laughed at 
the idea. If it really happened I should be broken- 
hearted, inconsolable. And Denise — it will please 
her so. I do wish she'd hurry up and get here.” 

“ No, no ; let her take her time. It’s so long 
since I’ve enjoyed a real comfortable tete-k-tete 
with you — ” 

“ There ! You base flatterer ! Have done. 
You wouldn’t say such a thing as that to an old 
maid like me, if you had ever seen Denise. You’ll 


14 A LATIN^QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

be perfectly fascinated by her. I know you will. 
. . . But now tell me, how’s your mother ? She — 
she’s not here in Paris with you ? ” 

“ Oh, no, indeed. She’s at home, in New York; 
or just now, I suppose, she’s up at our country- 
place in Oldbridge. You couldn’t tempt her to 
cross the ocean for any consideration. She dreads 
the sea-sickness so.” 

“ But she’s well, I hope ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, thank you. About as usual, at last 
accounts.” 

“ And your cousin. Miss Clark ? ” 

“ Oh, Fanny — oh, she’s the same as ever.” 

“ Not married yet ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Nor engaged ? ” 

“ Well — no, I guess not.” 

“ You only guess ! Aren’t you certain ? Is there 
a young man ? ” 

“ I — I really don’t know,” he answered, with an 
imperceptible squirm. . . . He deemed it unne- 
cessary to confess the truth, — a truth exceedingly 
distasteful to him, and which he tried to keep in 
perpetual banishment from his mind, — that he and 
his cousin were tacitly betrothed. That is to say, 
he had promised his mother to make Fanny his 
wife ; and Fanny had promised her aunt to accept 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 15 

Stephen as her husband ; but the two principals 
had never exchanged a word upon the subject 
with each other. 

Well,” went on Dr. Gluck, “ of course, when I 
saw her, she was scarcely more than a child. But 
she bade fair to become quite pretty ; and I should 
suppose the young men would be flocking around 
her by this time. How old is she ? ” 

“ About twenty, I think. Yes, she’s pretty 
enough, if you like that type. Blue eyes, fair 
skin, light brown hair. She’s a tremendously pious 
girl, you know. Teaches in Sunday-school, and 
carries tracts around to the hospitals, and prays 
for the unconverted heathen, and all that. De- 
voted to my mother ; and my mother loves her 
like a child of her own.” 

“ And the Merriwethers — do you see as much of 
them as you used to ? ” 

“ Oh, no. They moved to Newark very shortly 
after you sailed ; and for social purposes they 
might as well have moved to South America. I’ve 
scarcely seen them since. Last time I met Mr. 
Merriwether — it was on Broadway, one afternoon — 
he told me you were in Vienna. So you may cal- 
culate how long ago that was.” 

“ Ah, yes. Dear me, what happy days they 
were ! I often think of them and wish them back. 


i6 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


What good times we did use to have, didn’t we ? 
But — Hark ! Isn’t that — I think that’s Denise, 
just come in.” 

The doctor listened for an instant. Then, step- 
ping to the door, “ C’est toi, Denise ? ” she called. 
Oui, Isabel.” 

“ Come here, dear, please.” 

Next moment Denise entered the room. . . . 


III. 

Now, the psychology of it I can not undertake 
to explain, but this is the fact : that at the sound 
of Denise’s voice answering, “ Oui, Isabel,” 
Stephen Ormizon felt his heart all at once break 
from its customary easy pace into a quite obstrep- 
erous gallop, and the blood rush warm and tingling 
to his cheeks. Was it due to some peculiar electric 
or magnetic property resident in the voice itself ? 
Possibly. It was at at any rate a sweet, fresh, girl- 
ish voice, and forcibly suggested a sweet, fresh, 
girlish owner. Or was it that, all the while, in Or- 
mizon’s sub-consciousness, Denise had formed the 
subject-matter of his conjectures, and that now, at 
the prospect of an immediate encounter with her in 
the flesh, his smouldering curiosity, so to speak, 
leaped into flame ? Or may it indeed have been — 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 17 

as Dr. Gluck, in debate with me, has strenuously 
maintained — a subtle and occult prescience that 
his destiny was at hand ?....! simply record the 
phenomenon, and leave the reader to frame a 
theory that will satisfactorily account for it. 

Denise entered the room, quite unaware of the 
presence of a strange man, with a question in her 
eyes aimed at her companion, as much as to ask. 

What is it, Isabel ? What did you wish ?” She 
had progressed a yard or two beyond the threshold 
before she perceived Ormizon. Then she halted ; 
and gave a little start of surprise ; and suspended 
the operation of pulling off her gloves, which she 
had been engaged in ; and waited, an interroga- 
tion-point. 

“ Mademoiselle Personette, permettez-moi de 
vous presenter Monsieur Ormizon,” said Dr. 
Gluck, with a flourish of the hand. 

Monsieur Ormizon performed the courtliest 
obeisance in his repertory. Mademoiselle Per- 
sonette curtsied, and suffered two starry eyes to 
shine for a second full upon Monsieur Ormizon’s 
face. 

“ Denise,” Miss Gluck resumed, “ it was Mr. 
Ormizon who advertised in the Morfiing News.*' 

“ Oh ! ” Denise responded ; and instantly a 
change, which it would be hard to picture, came 


1 8 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

over her entire little person. It was like the sud- 
den precipitation of a frost. It seemed to say, 
“Oh, I thought you were a friend. But I see — it 
is only business." 

“ Yes," pursued the doctor, “ you behold before 
you, in proper person, the redoubtable, the problem- 
atical S. O. Where, then, you wonder, are his 
bushy whiskers, his lurid nose ? I answer, give him 
time. His name is not Solomon, but Stephen. 
Neither does he take snuff ; but, I blush to own, he 
smokes and drinks. Neither is he an infame An- 
glais, but a true and loyal son of the stars and 
stripes. . . . There, S. O., now you may sit down." 

Denise looked thoroughly mystified, somewhat 
amused, and a little embarrassed, as though she 
could not at all account for the airs of familiarity 
that Isabel was taking on, but assumed that there 
must be some sufficient justification for them. 

“ Enfin," Miss Gluck concluded, “you never 
heard of so strange a coincidence. Mr. Ormizon 
called this afternoon to see you about his adver- 
tisement ; and as you weren’t at home, as she had 
thought when she let him in, Z^lie brought me his 
card. And — and what do you suppose ? I read 
upon it the name of one of my old and particular 
friends in New York — Mr. Stephen Ormizon ! 
But, ‘ Oh,’ I said to myself, ‘ it can’t really be he/ 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 


19 


However, I thought I’d just take a peep into the 
parlor, to make sure ; and I did so ; and there, 
beyond a peradventure, he sat, as large as life ! 
Now, what do you say to that ? ” 

Instantly the frost melted, evaporated. Denise 
smiled, and, with a little, graceful inclination of the 
head toward Ormizon, said, “ Why, how very 
strange and — and pleasant ! ” She spoke with the 
least trace of a foreign accent, chiefly remarkable 
in a certain weakness of her r’s, and in a peculiarly 
distinct enunciation of the minor syllables that we 
are apt to blur. Her auditor thought it was nota- 
bly quaint and pretty. 

You’ve heard me speak of my friends the 
Merriwethers — the people I lived with when I was 
studying in New York ? ” the doctor queried. 

“ Oh, yes ; many times,” Denise assented. 

“ Well, Mr. Ormizon was as intimate with the 
Merriwethers as I was, nearly. We used to meet 
each other at their house regularly two or three 
times a week. He used to take tea with us every 
Sunday evening, almost. Don’t you remember ? ” — 
turning to Stephen. “ And the theatre-parties we 
used to have ? And everything ? ” 

“ Indeed I do,” was his rejoinder. “ Those were 
famous days. I shall always think of them with 
kindness.” 


20 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 


“ And so shall I,” said the doctor, with a touch 
of melancholy. Ah me ! But to — to meet you 
again — this way — it’s almost — it’s the next best 
thing to getting back to them. It’s like renewing 
my youth.” 

She put out her hand and gave Ormizon’s a gen- 
tle pressure. He returned it with interest. 

Denise, possessing herself of the doctor’s other 
hand, patted it softly, stroked it, then kissed it, and 
murmured, “ Chere p’tite Isabel. . . . But,” she 
added, “ you must not think of those times. That 
was before you knew me. That makes me jeal- 
ous.” 

“ Oh, you sweet thing,” exclaimed the doctor, 
putting her arm around Denise’s waist. “You 
have no reason to be jealous. I never knew what 
real happiness meant until I met you. But there ! 
A truce to sentiment. Let’s sit down and be com- 
fortable, and have a good long talk.” 

She and Denise seated themselves on the sofa, 
linking their arms together. Ormizon took a low 
easy chair, fronting them. The doctor herself sup- 
plied most of the good long talk ; calling up re- 
miniscences and anecdotes of the old days in New 
York, and humming tunes from Pifiafore^ which 
had then been at the acme of its vogue. She be- 
guiled in this wise pretty much the entire twilight. 


A LA7'nV-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


2i 


Ormizon fixed his eyes upon Denise’s face, where 
they remained, until, fading by slow degrees, it at 
last vanished in the darkness. 

It was a pale, tired little face that Stephen Ormi- 
zon saw before him there in the thickening dusk, but 
a very interesting face, a very pretty and winning 
face, he though even a very beautiful face, never- 
theless. I owe I incline to his opinion ; for, as the 
author remarks, with great penetration, upon page 
49 of A Voice from the Wilderness^ “ after all, the 
beauty of a woman’s face is ultimately determined 
by the eyes. If the eyes be truly beautiful, they 
impart beauty to the whole face ; if the eyes be 
other than beautiful, then, no matter how fine, 
how regular, the other features, the whole face is 
spoiled.” Therefore, applying this rule to the case 
of Denise : if the warm red of her full and daintily 
chiseled lips ; if the delicate modeling of her nose 
and chin ; if her low and shapely forehead, snow- 
white beneath a wealth of waving dark-brown hair: 
if these did not suffice to make her beautiful, her 
eyes, in my judgment, unquestionably did. Over- 
arched by eyebrows as firm, yet as exquisite, as if 
penciled in India-ink, they were large and lumi- 
nously dark ; though whether black or brown it 
would be impossible to tell. In certain lights, in 
certain moods, they were indisputably black : a 


22 


A LA r IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


soft, liquid, yet impenetrable black. But quite as 
' often they were two or three shades off color, — a 
radiant, transparent brown, into which your gaze 
could plunge fathoms deep and never reach the 
ethereal, fitful fire that burned at the bottom. Ye.s, 
they were a lovely pair of eyes ; and they illumined 
and beautified the entire countenance that they 
pertained to, giving it life and spirit. They were 
what you would call ardent, passionate eyes. 
Ormizon says “ soulful but I can’t find the word 
in the dictionary. When you looked into them, 
you would think, “ How that girl could love ! ” 
Yet they were wistful, pathetic eyes, aglow with a 
mysterious, appealing sadness ; so that you would 
add, “ And. how she could suffer, too ! ” They 
were dangerous eyes for a susceptible young man 
to let his own associate with, at any rate ; and as 
Stephen Ormizon beheld them shining in the twi- 
light, upturned upon the doctor’s face, he felt 
strange and powerful forces loosening his heart 
and going out toward their possessor. He felt a 
strange, strong tenderness and compassion for her, 
a vague longing to be something more than a mere 
acquaintance to her, to make himself in some way 
of importance, of service, of comfort, to her. And 
when now and then, wandering a little, her eyes 
encountered his, — lo ! he felt the keenest, the most 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


23 


violent, yet withal the most delicious thrill go 
darting, quivering, wildly through the length and 
breath of his body ; and. he had to catch for his 
breath. ... In straightforward English, though 
he never so much as suspected it at the time, he 
was getting his first taste of the intoxicating bitter- 
sweet of love. 

All at once Miss Gluck started up, and Cried : 
“ Why, mercy on me ! It’s gone and got dark ; 
and I never thought of it. I’ve been so absorbed 
in hearing myself talk, I never thought to light the 
candles. Denise, why didn’t you remind me ? ” 

“ Why, I never thought of it, either,” said 
Denise. “ You were so interesting.” 

Ormizon extracted a box of matches from his 
pocket, scratched one of them, and asked, “ Shall 
I light these on the mantel-piece ? ” 

“ Yes, if you please,” Denise replied ; and he 
obeyed, while she busied herself with drawing the 
window-curtains. 

At this juncture the servant, who some two or 
three hours earlier had admitted him (and whom, 
as he remembered with much wonder, he had taken 
to be perhaps Mademoiselle Personette), appeared 
in the doorway, and announced, “ Ces dames sont 
servies.” 

“ Pshaw I ” was his reflection, “ I have stayed 


24 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

too long. What will they think of me ? Now I 
must clear out at once.” And offering his hand 
to the doctor, Well, gogd-by,” he began. “You 
know how delighted I am to have discovered you, 
and I hope — ” 

“ Goodness ! ” she interrupted. “ You don’t mean 
that you are going to run away from us like this.” 
Her air of dismay was unmistakably genuine. 
“ Why, that would be absurd. Can’t you — won’t 
you — do stay and take pot-luck with us.” 

Involuntarily his eyes sought those of Mademoi- 
selle Denise. In them he read an earnest appeal 
to him to do as the doctor wished. For an instant 
— his heart beat so — he could not speak. In the 
end he said : “ Thank you. You are very kind. 
I should like nothing better.” 

They went into the cosiest of little dining-rooms, 
and arranged themselves around the snowiest of 
little tables. Denise with her own hands laid a 
cover for him. Then the servant brought in an 
inspiriting pot-au-feu, which they immediately pro- 
ceeded to discuss. 

“ Well,” declared Ormizon, “ I think that this is 
by all odds the most novel, the most deliciously 
Bohemian sort of thing J ever knew of — the way 
you two young ladies keep house here to- 
gether. It’s so thoroughly independent, such 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 25 

a vast improvement on a hotel or a boarding- 
house.” 

“Yes,” concurred the doctor, “it’s very good 
fun.” 

“ It is charming,” added Denise. “ It was an 
inspiration of Isabel’s. Ah, if you could compare 
it with that pension of Madame Minoir’s, in the 
Rue Vanneau ! ” A little shrug, a little grimace, 
which Ormizon thought adorable ; so piquant, you 
know, so inimitably Parisian. “ N’est*ce pas, 
Isabel ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t mention that old dragon of a 
Madame Minoir,” cried the doctor. “ She used to 
steal into our rooms and read our letters ; I’m 
sure she did. But here — why, we’re just like hus- 
band and wife ; aren’t we, Denise ? ” 

“ Perfectly,” Denise responded. 

“ Which is which ? ” Ormizon inquired. 

“ Now, what a question ! ” cried the doctor. 

And thereupon the quasi-conjugal pair went off 
in a regular gale of laughter, as though it were the 
funniest joke in the world. It’s a wonder, how 
little it takes to excite the risibility of light- 
hearted young women. 

“Well, I suppose you have your interesting 
little family jars, and curtain lectures, and the 
whole programme, don’t you ? ” he pursued. 


26 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


“ Nonsense, you cynic. We have never had a 
single cross word ; have we, Denise ? ” 

“ Nevair ! It has all been honeymoon from the 
first.” 

“ Why, it’s hardly credible,” he vowed, “ both of 
you being women. I thought women always 
quarreled.” 

“ Well, they are a quarrelsome lot as a rule, it 
must be confessed. But you see Denise and I 
differ from ordinary specimens of our sex. I'm a 
doctor, and Denise is an angel. Nobody could 
quarrel with Denise.” 

“ Oh, tais-toi,” cried Denise, coloring. “ Mr. 
Ormizon will think we are a society of mutual ad- 
miration.” Then, to change the subject, “ Where do 
you live, Mr. Ormizon ? In what part of Paris ? ” 

“ I live not a stone’s throw from you, — around 
the corner, in Rue Gay-Lussac.” 

“ Is it possible ! ” put in the doctor. “ Rue Gay- 
Lussac ? A howling swell like you ? Why, how 
did you come to choose such an unfashionable 
neighborhood ? ” 

** Now don’t call me a howling swell. I object. 
You’ll convey an altogether false impression of 
me to Mademoiselle Personette. This coat that I 
have on— it’s absolutely the best in my vrardrobe, 
I give you my word.” 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 27 

Well, then, question, question ! ” cried the 
doctor. 

‘‘ Let’s see ; what was the question ? ” he de- 
manded. 

‘‘ Why you live in Rue Gay-Lussac ? ” Denise 
informed him. 

Oh ! Well, because it’s the Latin Quarter — 
the quarter of Murger, of de Musset, of Rodolphe, 
of Frederic. I wanted to live in the Latin Quar- 
ter for the sake of its traditions, its atmosphere, 
its associations.” 

“ How funny ! Why, it’s on that very account 
that most people prefer to live elsewherp. It isn’t 
considered the things you know, except for stu- 
dents. We live here because it’s cheap. Low 
rent, you understand. It would be cheaper still, 
and pleasanter, in Passy, or Auteuil, or some- 
where ; but then D-enise would lose so much time 
and get so tired, going and coming to and from 
her lessons.” 

“ Yes ; but here it’s so interesting ; there’s so 
much color, life, picturesqueness. You feel as 
though you were right in the midst of the mise- 
en-scene of a romance. Passy, Auteuil, and such 
places are so frightfully provincial, so dead, and 
dreary, and out of the world. I should hate to 
live in Passy. I’d as soon live in Brooklyn.” 


28 A LA77N-QUAJ^TER COURTSHIP. 

“ You are a man,” observed Denise. “ You 
would prefer Passy — you would prefer anything 
almost — to the Quartier Latin, if you were a young 
girl ; is it not so, Isabel ? ” 

“ Why is that ? ” he asked. 

“ Because in Passy it is possible for a 
young girl to venture alone out in the street 
without always being insulted. Here in the 
Latin Quarter — no ; it is not allowed. Each 
day the young girl is rendered miserable — stared 
at, addressed, humiliated Ask Isabel. In other 
parts of Paris it is not so bad. Here — oh-h-h ! ” 
She gave the most charming little shudder. 
“ Every day I must run the gauntlet of these stu- 
dents, who are without heart, without feeling. I 
would — I would razair die.” 

“ Ra-th-er,” corrected Dr. Gluck. “ Don’t for- 
get your t-h’s, Denise.” 

“ By — by — by Jove I ” thundered Ormizon, eyes 
flashing, cheeks flushing, fingers clutching danger- 
ously at the handle of his knife. His boiling blood 
had nearly got the better of him. He remembered 
himself just in time to steer clear of a stronger 
adjuration. By Jove ! Do you mean to say that 
— they dare — to be rude — to you ? I — I’d like to 
catch one of them at it. I’d like to be around 
when one of them offers to speak to you. I’d 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


29 


wring his neck. I’d break every bone in his body. 
I — I beg your pardon. I forgot. But — but, good 
Lord ! I never heard of anything so outrageous.” 

“ Vive I’Am^rique ! ” cried Dr. Gluck, waving 
her napkin as though it were a flag. “ You’re 
a thorough Yankee, S. O. Do you know what 
a Frenchman would suppose, to see you flare up 
like that ? ” 

“ No. What ? ” 

“ He’d put you down for a lunatic. Respect 
for an unprotected woman, provided she’s young 
and pretty, would be proof positive of lunacy to 
the way of thinking of an average Frenchman. 
Wouldn’t it, Denise ? ” 

Yes ; that is so,” acquiesced Denise. “ Women 
are fair prey ; especially on the left bank of the 
Seine.” 

“ Every day she comes home perfectly ex- 
hausted, — sick with mortification and anger,” said 
the doctor. I tell her she ought to follow the 
example of the eels, and get used to it ; but she 
doesn’t. They don’t bother 7ne much, though. So 
there are some compensations for being old and 
ugly.” 

“ Old and ugly ! ” echoed Denise, with wither- 
ing scorn. ‘‘You old ! You ugly ! Why, you are 
as beautiful — as beautiful as — ” 


30 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

In default of a simile, she kissed her hand, and 
tossed the kiss across the table to the doctor. 

“ As one of your kisses, do you mean to say ? " 
queried the doctor, maliciously. 

“ Oh — you — oh ! ” stammered Denise, all blushes 
and confusion. 

Ormizon took a sip of wine. No sooner had he 
done so than a smile of pleasure lighted up his face. 
Miss Gluck noted it. 

“ You like it?” she questioned. 

“Perfectly delicious. I never tasted anything 
approaching it. Such a peculiar, spicy flavor. 
What is it ? ” 

“ A cousin of mine sent it to me from Bulgaria, 
where he was traveling. It has rather a dark and 
sinister name. It’s called Turk’s Blood.” 

“Why, that’s very romantic and picturesque, I 
should say,” he remarked, emptying his glass. 

Denise refilled it for him. 

“ And,” Miss Gluck went on, “ my cousin wrote, 
the natives have a curious little ceremony that 
they practice whenever a bottle is uncorked. . . . 
Let’s see. How does it go, Denise ? ” 

“ Why, you remember. ‘ What is this ? ’ asks 


“ Oh, yes. Well ? And then ? ” 

“Why, how funny that you should forget! 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 3 ^ 

Another replies, ‘ It is Turk’s Blood.’ ” This, 
Mademoiselle Denise rendered in a chilling 
stage-whisper. “ ‘ Then let it flow freely,’ they 
all shout in chorus.” 

“ It strikes me the Bulgarians are a very sen- 
sible people,” said Ormizon, and carried his glass 
to his lips. 

Now, then, a toast, a toast ! ” called the doctor. 
“ All good things are three, the Germans say. Let 
us then baptize our triple alliance.” 

They clinked their glasses, and drank the toast 
with enthusiasm. 

Presently, “You have never been in America, 
Mademoiselle Personette ? ” Ormizon inquired. 

“ H^las, no. And I suppose I shall never go.” 

“ Why helas ? Do you mean that you would 
like to ? ” 

“ Oh, I should love it. I should be delighted.” 

“ Indeed ? Is that so ? Why, that’s rather odd.” 
“Odd? How?” 

“ Why, most French people, especially Paris- 
ians, find their own country sufficient unto itself. 
They have no desire to travel.” 

“ Ah, yes. But you forget. I am not all French. 
I am one-half American, Anglo-Saxon.” 

“ True. Still, you have grown up in France, 
amid French influences ; and I should suppose 


32 A LA TIN- QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

that in your feelings, your sympathies, you would be 
essentially French, despite your American blood.” 

“ Ah, well ; that depends. In some things, yes, 
you are right. In others, no. In patriotism, yes ; 
I am French to the core. In war, I would fight for 
my country to the death. When we have our re- 
venge with Germany, I will wish I was a man, to be 
a soldier, to kill those barbarians, those tyrants — 
oh ! But in many ideas I am thoroughly Amer- 
ican ; or, as you say, Anglo-Saxon. In my heart 
there comes, when I speak the word America^ a 
warm glow of love. It was the country of my 
mother. Though she lived in France twenty, 
twenty-five years, she was always American, never 
French.” 

“ Down deep,” averred Dr. Gluck, Denise is an 
out-and-out Yankee. She has the American char- 
acter ^ which is the important thing. But it’s col- 
ored and warmed up by the French temperament^ 
which is undeniably an addition. Now, you take 
the matter of reading. If anything has an influ- 
ence in shaping a person’s character, reading has ; 
and she reads English pretty much all the time.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! Are you really fond of our liter- 
ature ? ” he asked. “In general the French are 
so indifferent to it.” 

“ Oh, to me, it is by far the best. It is that 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 33 

which I mean when I say that in many ideas I am 
Anglo-Saxon. It is the English literature which 
moves me most deeply, which has most to do with 
forming my opinions.” 

“ So that, in a certain sense, you have adopted 
the Anglo-Saxon point of view ? ” 

“ Yes ; what you call the Anglo-Saxon feeling 
about life. French literature — it is the spirit of it 
which I do not like. If it is not cynical, pessimis- 
tic, then it is sentimental, goody-good. If it is not 
extravagant, bombastic, then it is insipid, sickish- 
sweet. If not Daudet, it is Malot ; if not Hugo, 
Lamartine. We have in French no Howells, no 
Emerson, no Browning — nothing so healthy, so 
tonic, you know.” 

“ Well, I don’t know whether I could subscribe 
to your condemnation of French literature. Dau- 
det, it seems to me, is a great artist ; and, then, 
you have left out Halevy. What could be healthier 
or more charming than his Mariage Amour ? 
And then, there’s Flaubert, the greatest of them all. 
But I’m very glad to find that you like ours. And 
the three you mention — Howells, Browning, Emer- 
son — are they your favorites ? ” 

“ How can any self-respecting woman forgive 
Howells, after he let Dr. Breen go back on her 
profession ? ” cried Dr. Gluck. 


34 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“Yes, especially Browning,” said Denise, in an- 
swer to Ormizon. “ They are yours also — no ? ” 

“ Well, I had an Emerson phase — yes. I don’t 
read him much nowadays, though. Browning I 
have never tackled.” 

“ Oh ! You have never read Browning ! ” 

“ Not more than ten lines. It took me so 
long to understand them, I got discouraged. I’m 
not sure I really did understand them, even 
now.” 

“ Oh, I wish I were in your place ! ” 

“ Why ? ” . 

“ You have such a world to conquer, such a feast 
awaiting you. Why, do you know, there is in 
life no other pleasure equivalent to that which one 
enjoys in reading Browning ? ” 

“ No. I didn’t know it,” he replied, amused, 
yet also charmed, by her fervor. “ Is it so ? It’s 
a pretty sweeping statement.” 

“ Yes ; but it is true, — literally, absolutely true. 
He lifts you into a new atmosphere ; he vivifies 
you. Oh, when you read him, you feel so exhilar- 
ated, so exalted ! He makes you thrill and tingle 
through and through. He is — really — without ex- 
aggeration — he is the greatest poet that has ever 
written, — greater than Dante, greater than Shakes- 
peare, even. You look incredulous. You don’t 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


35 


believe it. Wait till you have read him. You will 
say so too.” 

“ In what does his greatness especially consist ?” 

“ Oh, in many things. But especially — I believe 
especially in his wisdom. Wisdom, I mean, in the 
scriptural sense. His insight, his deep knowledge, 
his unfearing love, of the truth, — the fundamental, 
the essential, the permanent truth of human nature 
and life. He pierces down to the very marrow, 
the quick, the core, of human nature. There is 
not, apparently, a single human experience which 
he has not — how you say? — plomb^ ? — fathomed : 
not a sngle doubt, fear, hope, temptation, aspira- 
tion, — in fine, emotion. By the force of his imag- 
ination, he has tasted all the joys, endured all the 
agonies, achieved all the heroism, committed even 
all the sin, of which human nature is capable. He 
knows, he comprehends it all.” 

She paused. Ormizon impulsively exclaimed, 
“ Go on, go on.” 

“ Well, that is what I mean. Maybe I do not 
make it very clear. But — well, this is the point : 
you will find somewhere in Browning, a voice, an 
expression, for every feeling, for every mood, that 
you can have. All your own vague, nebulous 
thoughts, you will find them precisely, eloquently 
stated. All your own unutterable feelings, you will 


36 A LA riN-Q UAR TER CO UR TSHIP. 


find them uttered for you. And in such a virile, 
vigorous style ; so nobly, so beautifully, so melo- 
diously. Oh, you — you must read him right away. 
You will wonder, after you have read him, you will 
wonder how you have ever lived without him. He 
is so satisfying, so consoling, so inspiring. Why, 
for me — why, if I have to choose between giving 
up Browning and giving up all the rest of liter- 
ature and art, — music, painting, everything, — I 
shall not hesitate for an instant. He is like a pro- 
phet, like Isaiah, — only greater, — much, immeas- 
urably greater.” 

Color had mounted to her pale cheeks. Her 
brown eyes burned with eagerness, earnestness. 
Her voice vibrated with feeling. Ormizon thought 
that he had never beheld anything half so beauti- 
ful, never heard anything half so eloquent, as 
Mademoiselle Denise in this moment of enthu- 
siasm. 

“ I shall certainly apply myself to Browning 
forthwith,” he said. “ I had always imagined that 
he was affected, pedantic, obscure, tedious, — I 
don’t know what all.” 

Denise sprang up as though she had been 
stung. 

“ Just wait an instant. I will show you,” she 
cried, and ran out of the room. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 37 

“ You see, you’ve got her started,” said Dr. 
Gluck, smiling. 

“ She — she — she is ” He stopped himself. 

Adorable ” was the word at the tip of his tongue. 
He suppressed it, and left his judgment of her 
forever unrecorded. 

“ Yes,” assented the doctor, ‘‘ she’s a great en- 
thusiast.” 

“ And you — are you too a Browning-phile ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Oh, dear, no. I don’t go in for poetry. Lan- 
dolt on the eye and ear is poetic enough for me.” 

Denise came back, carrying a book in her hand. 

“ Now,” she explained, “ of course his best things 
are long, — too long to read aloud. But I will just 
read you one or two of his little songs, — just to 
give you a taste, you know, to whet your appe- 
tite.” 

Then she read Misconceptions^ In a Year^ and 
Mesmerism, When she had done, Ormizon con- 
fessed that it was without exception the most 
beautiful poetry that he had ever heard ; though I 
suspect his admiration was occasioned rather by 
the reader and the reader’s way of reading than by 
the intrinsic merit of what she read. Indeed, I 
suspect that if she had read as many of Edward 
Lear’s nonsense verses, or of Martin Tupper’s 


38 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

philosophical proverbs, Ormizon would have ac- 
counted them triumphs of the poetic art. 

^ Well,” said Denise, “ you will take this book 
home with you, when you go, will you not ? And 
then you can read it by yourself, and study it ; 
and then, I am sure, you will be as much of an 
enthusiast as I am.” 

After dinner they went back to the salon. 

“ Now, Mr. Ormizon,” said the doctor, “ I know 
that you are dying to smoke. Therefore, please 
light your cigarette.” 

He obeyed with thanks. 

“ ’Sabel, will you not play a little ? ” asked 
Denise. 

The doctor sat down at the piano, and played 
with a good deal of dash and spirit Weber’s Invi- 
tation to the Waltz. After which, “ Now, Denise,” 
said she, “ it’s your turn.” 

Very delicately and intelligently, in a sweet, 
fresh, nicely-trained mezzo-soprano voice, to the 
doctor’s accompaniment, Denise sang Gounod’s 
charming barcarolle, Dites la jeune belle. 

Pretty soon after she had finished, Ormizon bade 
her and the doctor good-by. 

The melody of the barcarolle rang in his mem- 
ory all night long. 


A LATIN^QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


39 


IV. 

The next day was Sunday. 

Ormizon, usually an early riser, did not wake 
up till nearly ten o’clock. That, however, was 
natural enough ; for he had not fallen asleep till 
very late the night before. He had tossed from 
side to side, in an unwonted state of excitement, 
for two or three hours after he went to bed. His 
insomnia he attributed to the coffee he had drunk 
after dinner. 

Even now, advanced as the forenoon was, he 
did not at once forsake his pillow. He reached 
out of bed, and procured a cigarette from the table 
near at hand. Then he lay still, smoking, gazing 
at the ceiling, absently noting how the cracks 
thereof seemed to shape themselves in queer, un- 
canny physiognomies, and thinking over his visit 
in the Rue Soufflot. 

The sensations that accompanied this effort of 
memory were exceedingly agreeable. On the 
whole, he told himself, it had been as pleasant an 
evening as he had ever passed in his life. How 
strangely, how surprisingly, the whole thing had 
befallen ! And how delightfully ! How far he had 
been from anticipating anything like it, when he 
had started out to respond in person to the note 


40 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


from D. Personette ! Are these happenings which 
we called accidents, — are they really accidental ? 
Or, as one would like to be able to believe, is the 
hand of Providence in them, after all ? What — 
what a dear good creature Dr. Gluck was ! So 
genuine, so simple-minded, so cordial, so warm- 
hearted ! A veritable child of nature ; yet always 
a lady, always a gentlewoman, despite her excess 
of animal spirits, despite her profession, despite 
her tendency toward the Boh^mienne. And 
Denise — ah ! 

At the thought of Denise, a host of unspeakable 
emotions, very delicious, yet provocative of great 
unrest, — of a strong keen longing for — for what ? 
— for something that he could neither name nor 
describe, — began to stir turbulently in his bosom. 

“ Denise ! ” 

He pronounced her name. Then he drew a 
deep, long breath, every inch of which thrilled him 
through and through. Then he took a puff at his 
cigarette, and pronounced it again ; 

“ Denise ! ” 

How frail, how dainty, how exquisite, how — how 
— how adorable and fascinating she was ! And 
how — what — what a shame it was that she should 
have to slave her life away, and put up with all 
manner of hardships and humiliations, in order to 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 41 

earn her meagre livelihood ! And how pitiable, 
how pathetic, her position, alone in the great 
world, without father or mother, kith or kin, — with 
no one but her friend the doctor to depend upon 
for sympathy, for counsel, for protection ! Oh 
that there were some way in which he might do 
something to render her lot easier and happier ! 
. . . Those little shapely white hands of hers, — 
what wouldn’t he give for the privilege of holding 
one of them a little while in his ! And that mys- 
terious, passionate, appealing fire that palpitated 
deep in her eyes ! And her voice, and that deli- 
cate touch of a foreign accent ! And those poems, 
— how charmingly she had read them ! And that 
barcarolle, — how bewitchingly she had sung 
it ! . . . 

“ Di-tes la jeu-ne belle, oh voulez-vous aller?” 
He hummed the tune of it softly to himself. 

But suddenly he started to a sitting position ; 
and his face took on an expression of perplexity. 

“ Well, I declare ! ” he muttered, half aloud. 
“ Well, I never heard of anything quite so 
idiotic ! ” 

He had just recalled a ridiculous little circum- 
stance : namely, that he had totally omitted and 
forgotten to discuss with D. Personette the busi- 
ness that had brought about their meeting. He 


42 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

had not so much as broached the subject of the 
copying of his manuscript. 

But now his mind misgave him. It was in scorn 
of himself that he cried, “ What ! Shall I — great, 
strapping fellow that I am — shall I — because I 
dread the labor, the fatigue, the drudgery, of it — 
shall I let that delicate little girl wear herself out 
over it ? Shall I shirk my task, and let her per- 
form it ? — throw down my burden, and let her take 
it up ? Isn’t she heavily laden enough already ? 
How pale and tired she looked, — poor little thing, 
dear little thing ! And do I — do I want to see her 
grow paler and still more tired, slaving for me ? 
Oh, shame ! ” 

He had wrought himself into quite a fine frenzy 
of indignation, before it occurred to him to re- 
member that she no doubt very much needed the 
money. But even this consideration did not alto- 
gether allay his pangs of self-reproach. If there 
were only some means by which he could make 
the money hers without allowing her to do the 
work ! Alas ! he cudgeled his wits in vain. He 
could conceive of none. 

“ No,” he concluded, “I suppose I shall have to 
let her do it. It goes horribly against the grain. 
I never shall be easy in my conscience, so long as 
I think of her breaking her back in my service. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 43 

But there’s no way out of it. So . . . Yet — yet — 
ah ! I know what I'll do ! I — I’ll pay her — 
I’ll make her take — twice — three times — what I 
should have to pay another. . . . Yes, I will. I’ll 
say that the regular price for such work is — let’s 
see . . . well, a franc the hundred words. She’s 
never done any copying before, and won’t know 
the difference. Yes, sir ; that’s what I’ll do. 
That’s a great idea. Di-tes la jeu-ne belle, oh 
voulez-vous aller ? ” — his relief at having solved the 
problem finding vent in a jubilant burst of song. 

He got up and dressed ; drank his coffee, which 
had grown stone-cold, waiting for admittance on 
the floor outside his threshold, where Desir^, the 
gar9on, had left it some hours earlier ; dashed off 
a perfunctory letter to his mother, recounting, 
among other things, in a casual fashion, the events 
of yesterday ; went to an Etablissement Duval in 
the vicinity for his breakfast ; and finally, at about 
two o’clock, presented himself at Mademoiselle 
Personette’s door. 

“ Ah, monsieur,” the servant said, with an ac- 
cent of commiseration, “ the ladies are not at 
home — are gone out to walk.” 

“ Oh, is that so ? ” he faltered. 

Here was a contingency for which he had made 
no allowance. His spirits dropped many fathoms. 


44 A LA TIN- QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

The bitterness of his disappointment was signifi- 
cant, though its significance he did not yet under- 
stand. 

“You don’t know where they have gone?” he 
asked, inspired by a forlorn hope. 

“Ah, no, monsieur. They did not say.” 

“ Well, please tell them that I was here,” was 
his last request, in a sinking voice ; and, turning 
about, he set his dejected face toward home. 

But when he reached the corner of the Boule- 
vard St.-Michel, and saw the greenery and whiffed 
the freshness of the Luxembourg Gardens across 
the way, he changed his course. No ; why should 
he go home ? he asked, himself. Why not enter 
and stroll for a little, over there under the trees ? 

It was a mellow summer afternoon, — bright sun- 
shine, soft sweet air. The gardens were alive with 
people, — with many sorts and conditions of men 
and women, all industriously amusing themselves 
according to their several tastes : tidy old ladies 
seated in the shade, gossiping and doing needle- 
work ; white-mustachioed gentlemen, puffing their 
cigarettes, reading their newspapers, exchanging 
their vociferous opinions anent public affairs ; 
rosy-cheeked children, in bright-hued dresses, with 
frantic war-whoops and wild explosions of laugh- 
ter, dashing hither and thither at their games, like 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 45 

flashes of colored lightning ; sturdy peasant nurse- 
maids with their charges ; soldiers in their regi- 
mentals, priests in their cassocks, students with 
their serviettes, tourists with their guide-books ; but 
principally, it seemed to Ormizon, lovers with their 
sweethearts. Yes, every other young fellow had his 
pretty girl clinging to his arm, smiling into his 
eyes : the contemplation of which spectacle made 
our hero feel acutely his own singleness, and 
brought him a realizing sense that it is not good 
for man to be alone, — roused, that is to say, a 
hunger for like companionship in his own bosom, 
just as the spectacle of one’s neighbor enjoying a 
toothsome dainty will whet one’s own appetite for 
food. ... A state of consciousness that was per- 
haps intensified by the warmth and the fragrance 
of the weather. 

“ Ah me, if they had only been at home ! ” he 
was sighing sadly to himself. 

“ Why, Mr. Ormizon ! ” suddenly a familiar 
voice called out. 

His heart gave a great suffocating leap. 

“ Why, Mr. Ormizon ! ” the doctor repeated. 

How perfectly delightful ! ” 

Denise did not speak ; but she raised her eyes 
to his, and smiled. 

Neither did Ormizon speak. His voice and his 


46 A LA r IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


vocabulary, together with his presence of mind, had 
deserted him. He doffed his hat, and bowed his 
lowest. At last he contrived to stammer forth, 
“ I — I have just left your house. I — I just called 
upon you.” 

“Oh ! And found us out ! That, was too bad. 
But — but how did you know we had come here ? ” 
the doctor wondered. “ Did Z^lie tell you ? No : 
she couldn’t have. She didn’t know. Though, of 
course, if we had dreamed that you were going to 
call, we should have left word.” 

He sought to disguise his perturbation under 
excessive volubility : 

“ It was my lucky star which guided me. I was 
going home to chew the cud of my disappoint- 
ment in solitude, when an impulse, an inspiration, 
prompted me to turn in here. It’s a striking in- 
stance of telepathy. I shall make a record of it, 
and transmit it to the Society for Psychical Re- 
search.” 

“ Really ? ” questioned the doctor, literally. 
“ Do you really think so ? ” 

“ Oh, you must not make fun of the Society 
for Psychical Research,” cried Denise, laughing. 
“ Isabel is a member.” 

“ Oh, then you were only joking said the doc- 

tor, reproachfully. “You ought to be ashamed.” 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 47 

“ We have come for the music,” Denise went on 
to explain, “ and to see the people, and everything. 
It ought to begin very soon now, ought it not? ” 

It began next instant. The band struck up the 
familiar strains of the Turkish Reveille. 

“ Shan’t we sit down ?” Ormizon suggested. 

They were standing directly in front of the little 
open-air cafe in the middle of the garden. They 
established themselves at one of the small iron 
tables, and called for sirop de groseille and crisp 
hot gauffres. The band played lustily. The 
people moved about, laughing and chattering. 
The doctor gave him permission to light a cigar- 
ette. Denise kept smiling upon him in the most 
amicable fashion. Take it for all in all, Stephen 
Ormizon’s felicity was probably as complete as 
that of any man abroad that day. 

All at once Denise exclaimed, ‘‘Oh, this gauffre 
of mine ! It is the best I have ever tasted. It 
is done juste a point. You must each take a 
bite.” 

She broke it into three morsels, and with her 
own fingers deposited one of them upon the doc- 
tor’s plate, and another upon Ormizon’s. 

He felt as though it would somehow be a dese- 
cration to eat that bit of gauffre. He would have 
liked to preserve it forever. But gauffre, by its 


48 A LATJiY-QUABTER COURTSHIP. 

very nature, is perishable to the last degree. 
Besides, to put it into his pocket would attract 
attention, and very possibly make the ladies think 
he was a madman. So, with the courage of de- 
spair, he gulped it down. 

Yes, it is certainly the most delicious gauffre 
I ever tasted,” he declared, with unquestionable 
sincerity. Had not her fingers touched it, gloved 
though they' were ? 

By and by, “ Allons,” said the doctor. “ Let us 
walk a little.” 

As he sauntered at Denise’s side through the soft 
summer weather, a glow of well-being suffused his 
senses. The very smell of the leaves, brought out 
by the heat of the sun, regaled his nostrils like the 
rarest incense. His blood went leaping, tingling, 
through his veins. Without knowing it, he began 
to sing softly to himself, — 

“ Di-tes la jeu-ne belle, oii voulcz-vous aller ?” 

“Why, how lovely ! ” suddenly cried Dr. Gluck. 
“ There’s Lancelot. Isn’t it jolly ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” chimed in Denise, with an air that 
betokened much pleasure, and that sent a pang of 
jealousy shooting through Ormizon’s breast ; “ so 
it is. Quel bonheur ! ” 

“ Lancelot ! Lancelot ! ” called the doctor, flour- 
ishing her parasol to attract Lancelot’s notice. 


A LATIN-QUARl'ER COURTSHIP. 49 

“ Hi ! Hello ! ” Lancelot responded, and el- 
bowed his way to where they waited for him. 

After greetings and hand-shakes had been ex- 
changed between the new-comer and the ladies, 
“ Mr. Ormizon,” said the doctor, “ allow me to 
present our friend Mr. Palmer.” 

Mr. Palmer was a tall, thin young fellow, of five- 
or six-and-twenty, with clean-cut aquiline features, 
deep-set, intelligent gray eyes, and a thick shock 
of brown hair that fell below the collar of his coat 
at the back. The coat in question was a Prince 
Albert, faded, threadbare, white at the seams, frayed 
at the binding, and conspicuous for its exceedingly 
long skirts, which descended as low as the wearer’s 
knees. On the top of his head he wore a small 
soft wide-awake hat, that produced a somewhat 
incongruous effect of boyishness. At the other 
extremity he was distinguished by a pair of won- 
derfully large feet, encased in shoes that needed 
blacking. . . . He was what you would call an odd- 
looking chap, yet pleasant-looking, prepossessing. 
You would not have been in the least surprised, 
either, when Dr. Gluck, after her introduction, 
added, “ Mr. Palmer is an artist.” 

The two young men shook hands, eying each 
other rather askance, as young men under such 
auspices sometimes will. 


so A LAl'IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“ How are you ? ” inquired Palmer. 

“ Glad to meet you,” announced Ormizon ; 
thinking in his soul, “ I wonder whether this 
fellow is a — I wonder whether by any chance 
there’s anything between him and Mademoiselle 
Denise.” 

This suspicion of a possible rival robbed the 
sky of half its color, the breeze of half its balm. 

“ Well, doctor,” Lancelot declared, “ this is real 
nice. What do you suppose ? I was just around 
to your place, to ask if you and Mamselle, here, 
didn’t want to go down to Suresne for dinner. 
Well, sir, Zelie, she said you weren’t at home, and 
didn’t know where you’d gone ; and I felt quite 
broke up, until, thinks I, just as like as not they’ve 
gone to the Luxembourg to hear the music. So 
here I came, hunting for you. But it was about 
as hopeless as hunting for a needle in a hay-stack ; 
and I was beginning to get discouraged, and to 
give you up ; when first thing I knew, I heard you 
hollering out, ‘ Hey ! Lancelot ! Lancelot ! ’ And 
I looked ; and there, by Jupiter, you were, as sure 
as pop ! . . . Well, now, will you go ? ” 

“ Oh, Suresne ! By all means,” agreed the doc- 
tor. It’s a .splendid idea.” 

Oh, Suresne ! Suresne is the loveliest place in 
the world,” cried Denise. “ An open-air dinner at 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 51 

Suresne ! Hurrah ! And then afterward we can 
walk in the Bois.” 

“You’ll come along too, won’t you?” Lance- 
lot demanded of Ormizon. “ Dutch treat, vous 
savez.” 

“ Oh, yes, thanks ; I’m with you,” Ormizon 
replied. 

“ And now,” concluded Lancelot, “ so’s to have 
plenty of time, let’s start right off — hey ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; in order to have plenty of daylight. 
It gets dark so early now,” assented the doctor. 

“ Oh, what fun ! ” murmured Denise, clapping 
his hands. “ Lancelot, you were inspired.” 

“ No ; there can’t be anything between them,” 
Ormizon was reasoning. “ She’s altogether too 
frank and cordial with him for that.” 

He drew a deep breath of relief. 

They left the Luxembourg, and were jolted in 
an omnibus over the cobble-stones from the Odeon 
to the Place de la Concorde, whence they em- 
barked for Suresne aboard a bateau-mouche. 

Under friendly skies, the sail down the river to 
Suresne is always pleasant. In company with 
Denise, how could Ormizon help finding it trebly 
so? They sat forward in the bow of the boat, 
delightfully close together, where they could get 
the full benefit of what breeze there was, and enjoy 


52 A LAl'IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

without obstruction the prospect ahead and to 
either side. His sense of propinquity to her kept 
his heart in a constant blissful tremor. Before long 
they had left behind them the quays of Passy and 
Auteuil, with their hand-organs and their dancing- 
parties ; had cleared the frowning fortifications ; 
and were gliding onward through the still, cool 
waters, between sleek, grassy banks, in the shade 
of great overhanging trees ; while far and wide the 
surrounding country lay smiling Danae-like in its 
sun-bath of gold. It \vas past four o’clock when 
they reached Suresne. 

“ Now,” said Lancelot, “ I don’t want to hurry 
anybody ; but I move that we get our dinner first 
thing of all. I’m pretty nigh famished myself. 
Fact is, I haven’t had a square meal in a week. I’ve 
been saving up for this spree. All those in favor 
of sailing right into the eatables, please signify it 
by saying ay.” 

Ay ! ” 

“ Ay ! ” 

“ Ay ! ” 

So they took their places in the garden of one of 
the river-side restaurants, and for the next hour or 
two applied themselves to their knives and forks ; 
not to mention their wine-glasses, which flowed 
with amber-hued Chablis — at a franc a bottle. Ah, 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 53 

such Chablis ! fragrant of the grape, soft as oil 
upon the palate, looking like liquid sunshine, tast- 
ing like nectar of the gods. And such friture-de- 
seine ! A hundred tiny fishes, fried golden brown, 
each of them, as Lancelot fervently avowed, “ melt- 
ing in the mouth like a trill in the throat of a night- 
ingale.” And for the piece-de-r6sistance, such a 
fricandeau-a-roseille ! “ It’s so good,” cried Lance- 
lot, I’ll have to have another.” Which he pro- 
ceeded to order, and to eat, while his companions 
waited in murmurous admiration. And finally, for 
dessert, such plums, such apricots, such figs ! — 
figues-k-goutte-d'or — bags of purple satin, bursting 
with golden honey. . . . Their conversation all this 
while was of a most light and frivolous, yet a most 
entertaining, quality : so, at least, I am informed 
by Ormizon. But when I have pressed him for a 
synopsis of it, he has admitted that he can’t remem- 
ber a single word. “ It wasn’t so much what she 
said, you know, as — as the fact that she said it, you 
see,” is his lucid statement of the case. After 
dinner,” he adds, ‘‘ we crossed the bridge, to spend 
the sunset and the ‘ quiet colored end of evening ’ 
in the Bois, among the trees. And she sat on a 
rock, and sang the evening hymn from David’s 
* Desert and that was the brightest sunset, the 
tenderest twilight, I ever witnessed in my life.” 


54 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

They returned to town by the eight o’clock boat. 
Dr. Gluck complained of feeling a little chilly, and 
thought she had better seek the seclusion of the 
cabin. 

“ But you children stay right here,” she insisted. 
“ I’m not going to deprive you of the pleasure of 
the sail.” 

They unanimously demurred against allowing 
the doctor to remain in solitude below ; but she 
settled the question by declaring, “ Very well. 
Then I’ll sit it out up here, and catch my death of 
cold.” 

“ Oh, come,” put in Lancelot, “ let’s arrange it 
thusly. You,” addressing Ormizon, “ you and 
Mamselle stay where you are ; and the doctor and 
I, we’ll retire to the cabins and talk about ghosts. 
There’s nothing I get more solid comfort out of, 
than I do talking with the doctor about ghosts. 
She really believes in ’em, you know ; and when 
she gets started on the subject she’s immense.” 

He and the doctor disappeared down the com- 
panion-way. 

Next instant the boat shot around a curve in the 
river ; and, “ Oh, how lovely ! ” cried Denise, with 
an ecstatic little gesture. 

What ? ” Ormizon queried. 

Why, do you not see ? The moon.” 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 55 

Surely enough, there was the moon, a great, 
round, red patch of flame, slowly floating upward 
from behind the trees, and transmuting the bub- 
bles on the surface of the water to carbuncles and 
rubies. 

“ Oh, how lovely ! " Denise repeated. “ And 
what a sweet smell there is on the air — like new- 
mown hay ! And the ripple ; do you hear the 
waves rippling, as we cut through them ? ” 

“Yes ; it’s very fine,” he said. ... To himself 
he was holding forth as follows : “ I suppose I’ve 
got to start in about that copying sooner or later. 
I suppose the present is as good a time as any. 
We’re alone ; and I can talk to her with greater 
ease and freedom than I could if the doctor 
were by. Yes, I guess I may as well make the 
plunge.” 

He turned to Denise. She was gazing pensively 
up at the moon ; and her eyes softly reflected the 
light of it. He shrank from broaching so unro- 
mantic a topic. Nevertheless, he was anxious, he 
was determined, to have it over with. He gritted 
his teeth, clinched hfs fists, and began : 

“ Er — mademoiselle — you know — that is — I— I 
hate to lug anything so — so inappropriate — upon 
the carpet at such a moment ; but, you know, we 
have never yet spoken together about that — that 


56 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

copying that I advertised for ; don’t you remem- 
ber ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,’* was her response. “ That is true. 
Why, how absurd ! I had forgotten all about it.” 

“ Well, so had I, almost. But I suppose we may 
as well arrange about it. I suppose we may as well 
have the matter settled ; don’t you ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; certainly.” 

Her tone indicated that she was not perfectly un- 
embarrassed, either. 

Well, you may think that I’m a frightful lazy- 
bones not to do it myself. But I’ve got several 
good reasons. Among others. I’m troubled with 
writer’s cramp.” 

“ Oh,” she murmured, sympathetically. 

‘‘ Then, besides,” he went on, “ I’m sure, if I 
should undertake to copy it, I shouldn’t be able to 
let it alone. I should begin fussing with it, and 
trying to alter it and improve it ; and I’d end by 
spoiling it and making a mess of it. Yes, I’ve been 
over it times enough already ; and my only safe- 
guard now lies in leaving it just as it stands, with 
all its faults.” 

“ What is it ? Something that you have writ- 
ten ? ” 

*‘Yes, a novel. That is, at least, I mean, it’s an 
attempt at a novel.” 


A LAl'IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


57 


“ Oh, how interesting ! Tell me, what is it 
about ? ” 

“ Oh, that’s a long story. You’d better not get 
me wound up on that subject. About love, 
religion, lots of things.” 

“ And its title ? ” 

^‘Well, I have thought of calling it A Voice 
from the Wilderness. How does that strike 
you ? ” 

“ A Voice from the Wilderness I ** she repeated 
reflectively. “ Oh, excellent. I think it is an 
excellent title. I am sure I should want to read 
a book with that title, ^a pique Tapp^tit. It 
excites one’s curiosity.” 

‘‘ Do you really think so ? I’m very glad if you 
do. I hope, though, that you won’t find the title 
the best thing about it. I remember one novel 
that was published a year or so ago, and the 
critics said the title was the only part of it worth 
reading.” 

How cruel of them ! How bad it must have 
made the poor author feel ! When — when is yours 
coming out ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know that it will ever come out at 
all. Perhaps no publisher will accept it. That’s 
what happens to most novels, you know. But — 
but to come back to the point. It's pretty long — 


58 A LAl'IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

nearly a hundred thousand words. Do you think 
you will care to undertake such a labor ? ” 

“ I do not know how long that means — a hon- 
dred souzand words. But I suppose, if you are 
not in a great hurry, that I could do it. I write 
pretty rapidly.” 

“ Oh, no ; I’m not in a hurry. I shan’t leave 
Paris for a month or more. In that time you 
could get it finished, even if you didn’t write more 
than two or three thousand words a day. But, you 
know, copying is an awfully fatiguing sort of 
work. I hate to think of you tiring yourself out 
on my account. ' 

“ Oh, I shall not mind the fatigue. It will not 
be so bad as teaching. That is the hardest work 
I can imagine— to try to make an Englishwoman 
pronounce the French as it should be, or a French- 
woman pronounce the English, ^a — c’est ^pou- 
vantable ! I shall be excessively interested to 
copy your novel. Is — is it exciting ? ” 

Well, you can decide that question better than 
I can. I’m afraid it isn’t very. I’m afraid in 
some places it’s dull, and drags. I’m afraid it’s a 
little too serious. But when would you like to 
begin ? ” 

“ Oh, any time. As soon as you desire. 
Immediately. To-morrow, if you like.” 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 59 

Yes ; I think the sooner the better ; so that 
you can take it leisurely. I’ll bring the manuscript 
around to you to-morrow morning.” 

** Thank you. Then I will set to work at 
once.” 

“ But remember, you have more than a month to 
do it in. So, don’t work more than a little every 
day. Never tire yourself out over it, will you ? 
Just as soon as you begin to feel tired, put it by till 
to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, n’ayez pas peur, monsieur. You do not 
know what a grand — how you call it? — pares- 
seuse — idler — I am.” 

“ Well, I want you to promise. I shouldn’t be 
able to sleep at night, if I thought you were allow- 
ing yourself to get tired on my account.” 

You are very considerate, Mr. Ormizon.” 

*‘Of myself ; so I am. You see, I don’t covet 
insomnia. And novr — and now — about — terms.” 

** Oh, that, of course, I leave entirely to you.” 

“ Well, the regular price for such work is a franc 
the hundred words. Do you think that will be 
enough ? That would make — let’s see — that would 
make a thousand francs for the whole book.” 

“ A thousand francs ! Why — why, I never heard 
of such a thing. I — oh, I am sure you must be 
mistaken. I am sure it is too much.” 


6o A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“ Oh, no ; that’s the regular price : twenty cents 
— a franc — for each hundred words. Honestly.” 

Oh, but — ! A thousand francs! Do you 
know — have you any idea — how long it would take 
me to earn that, giving lessons ? ” 

“No. How long?” 

“ Six months — half a year. In a whole year I 
can earn perhaps two thousand — no more.” 

“ Two thousand ! Is it possible? Why, that — 
that’s only four hundred dollars.” 

“Well, that is the most I can earn. You see, 
the greater number of my pupils, they are French, 
of the little bourgeoisie, who keep shops, and like 
that. They pay me — well, how much you think ? 
One franc the lesson of an hour. The English, 
the Americans, of course they pay much more — 
three francs even. But I have only a very few of 
them, and only for a few months of the year. 
In these months of the summer — August, Sep- 
tember — I can earn scarcely anything at all. 
I must depend on what I have saved. . . . 
Oh, a thousand francs ! That makes me 
rich ! ” 

Ormizon did not speak. He could not trust 
himself to speak. There was only one thing 
that he could think of to say ; and the time had 
not yet come for saying that. 


A LATIN-QUARTEH COURTSHIP. 6i 

“ Yes,” Denise continued, “ it makes me rich. 
And now — now — I can go see Dr. Marsac.’' 

“ Dr. ! " faltered Ormizon, aghast. “ Why, 

are— are you in ill health ? ” 

“ Oh, no — not I. It was Dr. Marsac who took 
care of my mother. She was sick so long ; and he 
came all the time, and was so kind and good ; 
and I have never been able to pay him. I have 
needed every sou to support myself. But now — 
Oh, Mr. Ormizon, you have made me feel so 
happy ! " 

She lifted two beautiful, earnest, tearful eyes 
upon Ormizon’s face. It was only by the exercise 
of main force that he kept himself from folding 
her in his arms and kissing her. 

I was before,” she went on rapidly, I was the 
most miserable girl in the whole world. That 
thing — that debt — it lay upon my conscience day 
and night, all the time. And I was so hopeless. 
I could see no prospect to pay it. Ah, mon Dieu ! 
It made me so uneasy, so ashamed. It is like a 
great load which you have lifted off my back. I 
thank you — I thank you from my heart, Mr. 
Ormizon.” 

“ Dear — dear Mademoiselle Denise — ” he was 
beginning. Then a lump, or something, got stuck 
in his throat, and choked his utterance. . . . 


62 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


There was a little pause, during which the moon 
shone sentimentally. 

All at once she looked up, and asked very gravely, 
with a naivete that had its due effect, “ Is — is it 
true that you leave Paris next month ? ” 

Oh, how violently his heart leaped ! How 
madly it began to pound against his side ! 

His voice shook as he answered, “ I — I sail on 
the 26th.” 

Suddenly a bell began to ring, and the boatmen 
sang out, “ Place de la Concorde ! " 

“ Oh, here we are ! ” exclaimed Denise, start- 
ing up. 

Lancelot and the doctor joined them. They 
took a cab to the Rue Soufflot. 


V. 

“ Well, Mr. Palmer,” began Ormizon, after they 
had parted from the ladies, “ did you and the doc- 
tor exhaust the subject of ghosts ? ” 

“ It’s inexhaustible,” returned Palmer ; “ that is, 
when the doctor seriously assaults it. You know. 
Dr. Gluck is what you might call a scientific spirit- 
ualist. She accepts all the phenomena alleged by 
the spiritualists as authentic ; vows she’s seen ’em 
with her own eyes ; and then she undertakes to ex- 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 63 

plain them on a scientific basis. Well, of course I 
don’t agree with her ; I think it’s all stuff. But I 
enjoy getting her stirred up on the subject, just the 
same. She has a large head, and she talks well. 
But then I always enjoy the doctor, anyhow. Take 
her for all in all, she’s the best fellow I know. I 
often think what a pity she ain’t a man. She’s got 
so much of what the French call bonhomie.” 

Yes, that’s a fact. She’s a jolly good fellow,” 
Ormizon assented. “ You know she and I have 
been acquainted years and years.” 

So I judged from something she let fall. Well, 
now, she’s not half bad-looking either, is she ? Her 
coloring is tip-top ; and though she’s short and 
plump, she’s shapely, and she carries herself well. 
Kind of funny she’s never got married. She’ll be 
an old maid before long now, if she don’t look 
sharp. ... I say, by the way, are you the enviable 
possessor of a watch and chain ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Well, would you mind telling a less fortunate 
mortal what o’clock it is ? ” 

‘‘ It’s half-past nine.” 

“Thanks. I thought it was later. To confess 
the truth, I feel the need of some slight stimulus. 
And what would you say to reposing our weary 
bones for a little at yonder wayside inn ? ” 


64 A LA7'IN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


He pointed to a brilliantly lighted cafe on the 
Boulevard St. Michel, into which thoroughfare 
they had just turned. 

“ It’s a good idea,” Ormizon assented. 

They sat down at one of the cafe tables. Palmer 
ordered absinthe. Ormizon contented himself with 
beer. 

“ Smoke ? ” suggested the latter, proffering a 
bundle of cigarettes. 

Thanks. I prefer a pipe,” said Palmer, and 
proceeded to fill a short clay pipe with Caporal 
tobacco. After he had sucked it well alight, “ I 
was once the proprietor of a timepiece myself,” he 
resumed. “ But I’ve loaned it to my uncle.” , 

Ormizon smiled. 

“ Now, I dare say you’ve never had occasion to 
curry favor with your uncle — hey ? ” questioned 
Palmer. Then, without waiting for an answer, 
“ Well, you’re almighty lucky. I’ve been on inti- 
mate terms with the old gentleman for many years. 
Just at present there’s a trifling coolness between 
us, caused by the fact that my stock of marketable 
chattels, jewels, ornaments, articles of virth, 
etcetera, has run dry ; and he is not possessed of 
sufficient artistic discrimination to be willing to 
advance anything upon my own creations. How- 
ever, I live in the hope that this sad misunder- 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 65 

Standing may be set right, and our fond hearts re- 
conciled. He’s a convenient, though a stern and 
exacting relative, your uncle. Lord bless you, he 
and I have had dealings ever since I was a lad. 
Now, when I was a divinity student — ” 

“ Why, have you been a divinity student ? ” 

“ In the course of a long and somewhat event- 
ful career, I’ve been various sorts of things. Lve 
been a farmer, a carpenter, a school-teacher. 
Then, when I was eighteen, I went on to Boston 
with the idea of becoming a lawyer. But after six 
months in the law school I got disgusted. I wanted 
realities, and they gave me formulas. I wanted 
bread, and they gave me red tape. Then I packed 
my traps, and moved over to the theological semi- 
nary. There too, however, I paled and sickened. 
The atmosphere of cant, sham, insincerity, didn’t 
agree with me. It was death to my self-respect. 
I’d look at those sleek, smug-faced, unfledged 
parsons, and I’d tremble, by George, to think 
that I might grow to be like them. No, sir ; I’ve 
knocked around a good deal, but I never struck a 
hole yet where there was more downright mean- 
ness, and untruthfulness, and envy, and what you 
call pure cussedness, and less Christianity, than 
there was in that whited sepulchre of a divinity 
school. Why, the art schools here in Paris, why, 


66 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


they’re nest-beds of virtue compared to it ; and 
you know what their reputation is. Gad, it makes 
me sick, merely to remember it. . . . Well, after 
that I turned my attention to medicine. I didn’t 
enjoy it ; I didn’t especially believe in it ; I thought 
it was nine-tenths humbug and pretense : still, I was 
in a fair way to obtain my M.D. — which. I’ve often 
thought since, would have been my mortal dam- 
nation — I was in a fair way to obtain it, and to start 
out in the practice of my quackery, when, during 
one summer vacation, I tried my hand at sign- 
painting. The transition from a sign-painter to a 
would-be picture-painter was easy and obvious.” 

Ormizon laughed. “ And next ? What do you 
mean to be next ? ” he asked, with a flippancy which 
he was very soon sorry for. 

“No, sir. There’s no next on my programme. 
At last I’m firmly anchored. Art is not my mistress ; 
she’s my wife. I’m not coquetting with her ; I’m 
married to her for better or for worse — especially 
for worse. Indissolubly wedded we are, and shall 
remain, till death parts us. We’ve starved along 
together for some four years already, and I guess 
we’re not likely to quarrel for a good while to 
come. She’s jealous, she’s exacting, she knows 
how to make you feel mighty uncomfortable and 
unhappy, her favors are hard to win ; but she’s 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 67 

honest, she’s real, she’s worth while ; I’d rather 
eat a dinner of herbs in her company than a stalled 
ox in any other ; I love her with all my heart. 
That’s about the size of it, Mr. Ormizon. It took 
us a long time to find each other out ; but we were 
meant for each other from the beginning, all the 
same. Why, look here. I was born and raised 
’way down in the little village of Unity, Maine, 
among the Quakers, where they have no more idea 
of art than they have of Egyptology, and where 
they’d hold both to be equally ungodly. My father, 
and his father before him, and his grandfathers, 
clear back to the settlement of the colony, had been 
Quakers and farmers. So it ain’t strange that I had 
to flounder around a good deal, and make consider- 
able many false shots, before I finally hit the mark. 
.... No, sir ; my art is dearer to me than my 
life. Art is truth ; and truth is the only thing 
worth bothering about in this world.” 

Palmer paused, and relighted his pipe, which had 
taken advantage of his monologue to go out. 

“ I beg your pardon for speaking as I did,” said 
Ormizon. “ It was very silly and thoughtless of 
me. . . . You — you are studying here in Paris, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t mention it. That’s all right. I un- 
derstood that you were joking. . . Yes, I’m at Ju- 


68 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

lien’s. Before that I was at the Students’ League 
in New York, and also worked under Sartain in 
his studio. I’ve been here going on eighteen 
months. I arrived in Paris with a capital of four 
hundred dollars, which I’d saved up teaching draw- 
ing in a young ladies’ boarding-school out West — 
in Indiana. Ah me ! where are those dollars now ? 
Gone to join the Hebrew children, I dare say. 
Well, well ! But my heart yearns toward them, 
whereso’er they be. If I should meet one of them 
here on the Boulevard to-night, I’d greet it with the 
rapturous enthusiasm of old friendship. I’d wel- 
come it with a kiss and a hug. I’d kill the fatted 
calf, I’d set up the drinks, in its honor. I’d for- 
give its perfidy, even ; for, between you and me, it 
was frightful, it was disheartening, the cold- 
blooded haste those dollars made to desert me, 
after my advent here . . Ah, well, I suppose I 
might as reasonably wish for the snows of yester- 
year. Here’s peace to their ashes.” He emptied 
his glass. 

“You’ve got something better than money. 
Palmer ; a light heart.” 

“ Have I, though ? Perhaps, my dear fellow, it’s 
not so light as it seems. Anyhow, I wish it was as 
light as my purse — or, for that matter, as light as 
my stomach is most of the time. That’s my great 


A LATIN^QUARTER COURTSHIP. 69 

trouble. I can’t seem to get enough to eat. I 
can’t afford to spend much on my eating, especially 
when I haven’t got anything to spend; and, conse- 
quence is, I go to bed hungry ’most every night. 
Lately I’ve adopted the system of saving up all 
through the week, and then going in for a real 
square meal on Sunday — such as I had to-day. I 
tell you, a dinner like that one we had down to 
Suresne this afternoon — that’s the sort of thing 
that makes a man of me. On a full stomach, sir, I 
rise in my own estimation at least fifty per cent. 
... Hi ! Gar9on ! Encore une absinthe-k-la- 
gomme ! ” 

“ Yes ; but your system is a very imprudent one. 
You’ll ruin your digestion.” 

“You show me a means of getting rich, and I’ll 

drop the system like a hot potato. If you’ve got 

( 

any Philistines to be despoiled, trot ’em around to 
my studio, and I’ll feast like an epicure every day 
as long as they hold out. Otherwise — don’t talk 
to me about digestion.” 

“ Where is your studio? '' 

“ My studio and residence combined are around 
in the Rue St. Jacques, on the top floor of the 
Hotel du St.-Esprit. ‘ Sky-parlor reaching heaven- 
ward far,’ you understand. And I’ll tell you what. 
Don’t you want to come over there with me now ? 


70 A LATIN-QUAJil'ER COURTSHIP. 

I’ll show you some of my work. I possess the 
largest collection of Palmers in existence.” 

“ I should like to, above all things.” 

“ Well, come on.” 

Ormizon called for the reckoning, and was about 
to pay it, when Lancelot cut in with, — 

“ Oh, I say. Just compute my share of that, will 
you ? How much is it ? ” 

“ Oh, that’s all right,” returned Ormizon. “ This 
is my treat.” 

Not much it isn’t. Not if the court knows it- 
self, and it strongly suspects it does. Just calcu- 
late my percentage of our liabilities, and allow me 
to fork over. You see I can’t afford to let you 
treat me ; for I shall never be able to return the 
compliment. No, sir ; we’ll have to proceed on 
the Philadelphian plan from the beginning. Be- 
sides, it’s the mode here in Paris ; and there’s noth- 
ing like being a la mode.” 

So Lancelot, who, like the improvident Bohemian 
that he was, denied himself bread and meat, and 
then squandered the price of a dinner upon absinthe- 
k-la-gomme, — Lancelot contributed his portion of 
the sum due ; and the two young men set forth, 
arm in arm, for the Rue St.-Jacques. Their course 
thither led them back up the Rue Soufflot, and 
past the door of Denise’s house. 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


71 


Sweeping the fa9ade of it with his glance, “ I 
suppose our fair friends are wrapped in blissful 
slumber,” Lancelot observed. “ May their dreams 
be as sweet as their dispositions ! What — what a 
regular daisy that little Mamselle is, ain’t she ?” 

‘‘ She's very charming,” Ormizon admitted. 

“ So gentle and helpless and sort of appealing, 
don’t you know ? Yes, sir, she and the doctor 
make a first-rate team.” 

The Hotel du St.-Esprit was a dingy students’ 
lodging-house, with a great sign over the entrance, 
advertising “ Chambres et cabinets meubl^s.” 

“ Now comes the tug of war,” Palmer said. 
“ Breathe through your nose, and take it easy.” 

He led the way up five flights of stairs. 

“ Well, sir, here we are,” he resumed, when they 
had reached the top. He unlocked a door. 
“ Winded, but still intact, here we are in my castle 
and my sanctum, my bedroom, my kitchen, my 
atelier, my boudoir, and my salon. Just stay where 
you are till I strike a light. Otherwise, you might 
upset something, or bark your shins.” 

He lighted a candle, and then a kerosene lamp. 

It was a small room, not more than ten feet by 
twelve ; and it seemed smaller still, because it was 
crowded to its utmost capacity with the furniture 
necessary to a sleeping-apartment, and with the 


72 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


paraphernalia necessary to a painter’s workshop. 
A bed, a wash-stand, an armoire-k-glace, a table, 
two or three chairs, an easel, a lay-figure, and in 
one corner an old-fashioned hair trunk studded 
with brass nails, left but little space to move about 
in, and gave one the feeling of standing in an over- 
stocked lumber-room. The walls were tinted 
a soft olive gray, and barnacled with a multitude 
of canvases, of various shapes and sizes, bearing 
designs which, in the scant light of the lamp and 
candle, Ormizon could do no more than guess at. 
There was but a single window ; opposite which 
an open fireplace served as pantry and kitchen 
closet, being full to the brim with pots and pans, 
and with divers brown paper parcels that looked 
as though they contained food-stuffs. The air was 
loaded with an assortment of odors, forcible among 
them that of turpentine, that of stale tobacco- 
smoke, and that of cold ham. 

“ Sit down,” said Lancelot, “and make yourself 
at home. You see. I’ve been keeping house on my 
own hook lately, which accounts forthebatterie de 
cuisine you behold yonder in the chimney. I’ve 
got an alcohol lamp ; and, if I do say it who 
shouldn’t, some of the repasts I get up here are 
immense. I mean in quality, — not in quantity. 
That, as I said before, that’s my bugbear, my bete 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 73 

noire. I sometimes forget what enough signifies. 
If my appetite weren’t built on such a magnificent 
scale, it’s really astonishing, the small income on 
which I could make out to live. Now, take the 
matter of rent. What do you suppose the rent of 
this establishment is, monthly ? ” 

“Well, let’s see. Well, I don’t know. Perhaps — 
perhaps fifty francs. I pay seventy around in the 
H6tel de I’Univers, Rue Gay-Lussac. But my 
room is rather larger, and it’s only au troisieme. 
Yes, I guess your rent is somewhere in the neigh- 
borhood of fifty francs.’’ 

“ Oh, but the Rue Gay-Lussac is the height of 
swelldom, compared to the Rue St.-Jacques. It’s 
the Beacon Street, the Fifth Avenue, the West 
End, of the Latin Quarter. I looked for a room 
there myself ; but the prices scared me away. My 
rent, sir, is twenty-five francs a month, service in- 
cluded. That is, when I pay it. Just now I’m in 
arrears for a couple of months. But Madame 
Pamparagoux, my landlady, is of a trustful, hope- 
ful nature ; and so she lets it stand. Well, to 
continue, as I was saying, if I had an ordinary ap- 
petite, I could eat for two francs a day. That 
would bring my living expenses down pretty low. 
See ? ” 

“ I don't see how you could eat for two francs a 


74 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

day ; no. I should like to hear you explain it. It 
never costs me less than five, — it generally costs 
me at least six, — and 1 usually go to a Duval.” 

“ Why, bless you, there you are again with your 
lofty aristocratic notions. A Duval ! . . . Why, 
man alive, there are lots of fellows I know who 
eat for two francs a day, and less even. But they 
don’t approach within gunshot of a Duval. Well, 
for example : first breakfast, one sou of bread, 
one sou of milk — ten centimes. That’s taken at a 
bake-shop. Second breakfast, at a restaurant, but 
not a Duval, — second breakfast, one sou of bread, 
one sou of soup, five sous of meat, three of vegeta- 
bles — fifty centimes. Then go to a table-d’h6te 
for your dinner, at one franc twenty-five. So you’ve 
had your day’s rations for one franc eighty-five. 
The surplus of three sous you distribute as tips 
among the waiters.” 

Yes ; but what sort of food is it that they give 
you at these cheap restaurants ? They may flavor 
it so as to make it palatable ; but is it nourish- 
ing ? ” 

“ Well, it seems to be. The boys seem to worry 
through on it, anyhow. Of course there’s a strong 
presumption that the beef is horse ; but, then, 
horse is all right if you possess a stout set of teeth, 
and if you get enough. But for me, there’s the 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


75 


rub You get enough. Now, you take that 
table-d’hote at one franc twenty-five. It ain’t bad 
as far as it goes. But I — I’m obliged to eat two of 
them in order to get filled up. So, as I said. I’ve 
begun to cook for myself. On two francs fifty a 
day I can make out fairly well, and then go in for 

a regular rattling feast on Sunday But 

come. I wanted to show you some of my work.” 

Palmer took up the lamp, and, holding it aloft, 
pointed now to one, now to another, of the un- 
framed canvases on the wall, pronouncing a running 
commentary upon them as he did so. Ormizon 
said he liked the work immensely. So far as he 
could judge, it was full of ability, and promised 
better still. It was certainly very pleasing and in- 
teresting. “ But why do you always sign H. 
Palmer ? ” he wondered. “ H. doesn’t stand for 
Lancelot.” 

‘‘ Good Lord, man,” cried Palmer, laughing, 
my name ain’t Lancelot ! That’s only a bit of 
facetiousness on the part of those women-folks. 
They must have their joke, you know, and they’ve 
dubbed me Lancelot — well, I give it up why. My 
name is Hiram. Hiram Hutchinson Palmer is 
what I was baptized. I’ve dropped the Hutchin- 
son, and simply sign H. Palmer. That answers for 
all practical purposes, and is shorter and more 


76 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


convenient. But now, I say, sit down again, and 
let’s have a smoke.” 

While they smoked. Palmer told his guest some- 
thing about the art-school, Julien’s, at which he 
was studying. 

“ You pay forty francs a month for whole days,” 
he said, “ or twenty-five a month for half days. 
That entitles you to easel-room, and as much tur- 
pentine as you want to use, besides models. That 
don’t sound like much, but they say the old man, 
Julien, is getting rich on it, all the same. Julien, 
you know, is a retired model himself, and he 
opened this school as a speculation. Every now 
and then they have an exhibition of the work the 
boys have done, with cash prizes. The prizes 
ain’t exactly independent fortunes ; still, if a fel- 
low collars one, it helps along. I scooped in fifty 
francs last month, for instance ; and that fed me 
for quite a while. But, as I was going to tell you, 
your forty francs a month entitle you to all the priv- 
ileges of the school. Then the masters, they give 
their services free-gratis-for-nothing. At Julien’s 
there are Bouguereau, Boulanger, and Lefebvre, 
the three greatest draughtsmen living. They come 
to the school three times a week, examine what the 
boys have done, point out its faults, show you as 
well as they can how to set it right. They do this. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 77 

as I say, for nothing, — simply for the love of art ; 
which, I claim, is glorious. They relieve each other 
monthly. One month Bouguereau ; next month 
Boulanger ; and so on, round and round. This 
month we have Lefebvre. I tell you, he’s grand. 
He’s terribly severe, you know, unsparing in his 
criticism, mighty sarcastic sometimes, and all that. 
If he suspects that a fellow ain’t in earnest, that 
he’s just fooling, or going in for splurge or show, 
the Lord help him ! Ain’t he savage ! But he’s 
got a heart as big as an elephant’s ; and when he 
sees that a fellow means business, when he sees 
that a chap is working sincerely, honestly, just as 
well and just as hard as he knows how, I tell you 
he’s the kindest, he’s the gentlest, he’s the most 
encouraging old boy that ever drew the breath of 
life. It sometimes makes the tears start to my 
eyes when he comes up in his fatherly way and 
puts his hand on your shoulder and starts off on 
his remarks with ‘ Mon ami, mon cher fils.’ Then, 
as like as not, he goes ahead and gives your work 
particular fits, and then he winds up, ‘ But courage, 
my friend ! courage, patience, and hard work ! At 
your age I have done worse myself.’ It's beau- 
tiful. It’s a pity we haven’t got a few men of 
that stamp in America. But no ; yotrr Yankee 
painter, he’s on the make. He ain’t going to apply 


78 A LATJA^-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 

his valuable time and dazzling genius to the 
drudgery of teaching, unless there’s money in it.” 

Oh, well, you must make allowances for the 
American painter,” put in Ormizon ; “ he has such 
odds to contend against. Teaching is about the 
only method at his command by which he can earn 
his living. If he could get rich on the sale of his 
pictures, as these Frenchmen can, I have no doubt 
he’d be glad to give his services as a teacher with- 
out pay.” 

“ Well, maybe there’s something in that. Still, 
you can’t dispute this : that, taken as a general 
thing, the Frenchman loves his art better, and the 
money he may make out of it less, than the Amer- 
ican does. There’s a devotion, an enthusiasm, in 
the French artist, that you don’t often find in the 
Yankee. Now, you take Lefebvre. He reminds 
me of one of those old zealots you read about in 
history. His complete surrender of himself to his 
art is like the zealot’s surrender of himself to his 
religion. But he keeps his head wonderfully clear, 
all the same. He’s got the soundest philosophy of 
art that I ever heard expounded. His funda- 
mental principle is this : Art means truth, inter- 
preted by the imagination. A bad picture is 
bad just in so far as it is false. A good pic- 
ture is good just in so far as it is true. He 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


79 


says, ‘My boy, when you are painting, never think 
of the rewards your work may bring you. Never 
think of the money, the applause, the reputation. 
Concentrate all your thought, all your energies, 
upon making your picture just as good — that is to 
say, just as true — as you possibly can. Cherchez 
le caractere — seek for the character, which means 
the essential truth, of your subject. Let all the 
rest take care of itself. I would rather do true 
work and remain poor and obscure, than do false 
work and become the richest, the most renowned 
painter of my time.’ Then he emphasizes all the 
time the importance of good drawing. ‘ Learn to 
draw, learn to draw, learn to draw ; learn also to 
color,’ is a maxim of his. For he says it is good 
drawing that requires time, patience, sincerity, 
hard work ; whereas many a tyro, many a charla- 
tan, can produce an effective color piece.” 

As Ormizon was starting to leave, “ I say, 
Palmer,” he began, “ I hope you won’t mind, but — 
but as you seem to be a little hard up just at pres- 
ent, and as I happen to be quite flush, won’t you — 
I wish you’d let me — I wish you’d borrow a little 
something of me. I could spare a hundred francs 
or so, just as well as not.” 

“ Thanks, many thanks,” returned Palmer. “ It’s 
awfully good of you to offer. But no ; I can’t 


8o 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


borrow. I can’t afford to. I don’t know as I’d 
ever be able to pay you back, you see. But I’ll 
tell you what you might do. If you feel like buy- 
ing a picture — ” 

‘‘Just the thing!” cried Ormizon. “If you 
have anything within my means.” 

“ I guess there ain’t any of my work but would 
be that,” Palmer answered. “ I don’t set a very 
high price on it, yet. But I guess the best things 
I have are my black-and-whites, which I haven’t 
shown you. Here. Glance through that.” 

He handed Ormizon a portfolio. 

Ormizon began to inspect its contents. Pretty 
soon, “Is this for sale?” he demanded, holding 
up a pencil drawing. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I take it. How much ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know. What do you think it’s 
worth ? ” 

“ Well — say a hundred francs ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; I guess it ain’t worth more than fifty. 
It’s the subject that makes it worth that. It isn’t a 
very good piece of work.” 

“ It’s a mighty good likeness, though,” said Or- 
mizon, and counted out fifty francs. 

“ Thanks,” said Palmer. 

“ Thank And good-night.” 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 8i 

“ Say,” Palmer sang out after him, when he was 
half-way down the stairs ; “ you needn’t mention it 
to Mamselle — mind ? ” 

“All right,” Ormizon called back. 

It was a pencil drawing of an allee in the Lux- 
embourg Gardens. And walking up the allee, in 
the foreground, there was a lady, with a parasol in 
one hand, and a book in the other. And the lady 
bore really an astonishing resemblance to — Made- 
moiselle Personette. 


VI. 

As soon as Ormizon fully and clearly realized the 
nature of the sentiment that Mademoiselle Denise 
had inspired in him, two questions addressed 
themselves to his mind for serious meditation. 

What the first one was, every lover will be able 
to guess. Had he any reasonable ground for hop- 
ing that his passion might some time be returned t 
Upon the determination of this, he felt, his own 
resolution in respect of the second must depend. 
What had he better do about his quasi-engagement 
with his cousin Fanny ? 

He knew that his mother had set her heart upon 
the marriage of Fanny and himself. He knew that 
it was with her no light caprice, but a deep and 


82 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

steadfast purpose. Moreover, he had pledged 
himself to obedience in this regard by a solemn 
promise. Yet, he argued, if Denise should come 
to reciprocate his love, he would not merely be 
justified in recalling his promise and declaring the 
engagement off ; he would be in all right, in all 
honor, bound to do so. His mother would not 
like it. At the outset she would take it very 
hard indeed. She was a high-tempered, imperious 
woman, fond of having her own way, and accus- 
tomed to have it. He did not like to think of 
the anger and displeasure she would be sure to 
visit upon him at first. But in the course of time 
she would grow reconciled — probably. And, any- 
how, in affairs of this nature the persons to be 
chiefly considered are the principals — especially 
the lady. He did not wish to play the undutiful 
son ; but he would rather do that than play the 
disloyal lover. Yes, there were certain proper 
limitations to the submission which his mother 
could justly expect of him. If he should have to 
choose between allegiance to his mother and alle- 
giance to his sweetheart, he would not hesitate ; it 
would be cowardly, dastardly, to hesitate ; he would 
promptly and decisively choose the latter. . . . 
As for Fanny — fortunately, her heart was not in- 
volved. There was no love lost between Fanny 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 83 

and himself. She liked him well enough, perhaps, 
in a certain pharisaic, condescending way, but she 
had never pretended to any warmer sentiment. 
Her attitude toward him had always seemed to say, 
“ Now, mind ! I don’t approve of you the least bit. 
You are a bad, worldly, selfish man ; and I am a 
dear, sweet, self-sacrificing little angel. You are a 
miserable sinner ; and I am ^ saint, all ready for 
heaven. But you are the son of my beloved auntie ; 
and for her sake, despite your many and glaring 
faults, I will be forbearing and Christian-like, and 
consent to tolerate, even to patronize, you a little. 
Am I not a perfect miracle of magnanimity ? ” She 
had agreed to become his wife, just as she would 
have agreed to become a nun, or to wear bloomers, 
or to adopt a vegetarian diet, simply in compliance 
with the desire of her aunt. In her soul, doubtless, 
she would welcome a release from the obligation. 
... No ; he needn’t worry about Fanny. She was 
a factor easily eliminated from the equation. . . . 
On the other hand, if Denise should finally and 
unconditionally reject him — ! The bald statement 
of the contingency took his breath away. But 
there was no use shirking it. He might as well 
look it squarely in the face. Yes, if Denise should 
finally and unconditionally reject him — well, then 
he would go home and do his mother’s will. In 


84 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

that event, he would not care what happened to 
him, what became of him. He would go home 
and espouse his cousin. He regarded Fanny as 
a canting, self-righteous, self-satisfied little prig. 
But never mind. If he lost his own happiness, 
with Denise, he would at any rate insure his 
mother’s, by making her niece his wife. 

And now — and now, had he the slightest chance 
of winning Denise’s heart ? 

After he took leave of Lancelot on Sunday 
evening, he went home to walk his floor pretty 
much all night, balancing this problem in his mind. 
AVith throbbing pulse, with quickened, tremulous 
breath, eagerly, feverishly, now aflame with hope, 
now sick unto death with fear, he weighed every 
pro and every con that he could think of ; never 
advancing beyond this one invariable conclusion, 
which had been his starting-point : “ I do not know, 
I dare not say.” His reason forbade confidence. 
His desire would not allow him to become too 
despondent. When he repeated to himself that 
little impulsive question that she had asked him, 
“ Is it true that you leave Paris next month ? ” — 
when he recalled the tone in which it was pro- 
nounced, the glance by which it was accompanied, 
his prospect for the moment looked dazzlingly, be- 
wilderingly bright. But next instant, his common 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 85 

sense reviving, he would groan, “ No, no. It is 
impossible that she could have meant anything 
by that. Why, man alive, she — she’s scarcely 
acquainted with you as yet. She never saw you 
till — till yesterday, by Jove ; though it seems a 
lifetime. She isn’t going to lose her heart to a 
stranger. You can’t expect her to fall in love 
with you at first sight, you fool. No, no ; God 
help me ! ” . . . So, in an ecstasy of mingled joy 
and woe, hope and despair, he wore the night out, 
tramping back and forth, up and down his room. 
How many times he carried Lancelot’s pencil 
drawing of that all6e in the Luxembourg to his 
lips, and kissed it, I shall not attempt to reckon. 
The absurd, infatuated fellow ! Yet which of us, 
gentlemen, has never been guilty of similar folly ? 
Which of you, mesdames, but has inspired like 
wild behavior? 

At last, toward break of day, he threw himself 
all dressed upon his bed, and murmuring her name, 
qualified by sundry complimentary adjectives, to 
his pillow, fell into a restless sleep. 

“ Ah, the delicious anguish of new born first 
love ! How transitory it is ; yet, for its brief dur- 
ation, how all-important, how all-eclipsing, how 
all-consuming ! What thrills, what pangs, what 
burnings and freezings of the heart ! Into what a 


86 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

Strange, sweet, bitter, contradictory delirium it 
converts the happy sufferer’s heretofore common- 
place existence ! . . . Ephemeral as the dew, once 
passed away, it is passed away utterly and forever. 
Anguish, indeed, it is truly called ; synonyme for 
endless unrest and pain. But in the retrospect it 
seems an unalloyed celestial rapture ; and many 
and many are they, who would renounce all the 
treasures of the world, to experience its resur- 
rection.” — See A Voice from the Wilderness, chap- 
ter XXXV., page 326. The passion of which he was 
now getting his initial taste, Ormizon had already 
learnedly analyzed, and eloquently portrayed, in 
his novel. 

Late Monday forenoon he carried his manu- 
script around to the Rue Soufflot and left it with 
Denise. She received him alone in the little 
triangular gilt-and-white salon. She had pinned 
in her breast a sprig of mignonette, the perfume 
of which penetrated to the innermost recesses of 
our hero’s heart. 

“ Isabel is gone out,” she explained, since 
nine o’clock — to her clinic.” 

“ I was wondering,” said he, after he had 
delivered the manuscript, “ I was wondering 
whether you and she would do me a great 
favor.” 


A LATlISr-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 87 


‘‘Oh, I am sure we will. We will be very 
glad — if it is possible.” 

“ Well, I see that they are giving Monsieur Per- 
richon at the Gymnase. I wanted to know whether 
you and she would go with me to see it to-morrow 
evening.” 

“ Oh, and that is what you call a great favor ? ” 
she laughed. “ Is that the American style — to 
name things by contraries ? We shall be delighted. 
Monsieur Perrichon — it is the funniest play that 
was ever written. It is a classic of wit.” 

“ Ah, then you have seen it ? ” 

“Oh, no, never. I have gone but very little to 
the theater. I have read it, only. I shall be so 
glad to see it. It is very kind of you to invite us.” 

This last was said seriously, with wide eyes lifted 
to his face. 

“ It is you who are kind to agree to go,” he re- 
turned, with equal seriousness. 

And then there ensued an embarrassing little 
silence. 

“ Will — will you not sit down ? ” asked Denise. 

They had both remained standing, he with his 
hat in his hand, throughout their dialogue. 

“ Oh, thank you ; no. I must be going. Well, 
then. I’ll call for you to-morrow evening— say at 
about a quarter-past seven. Well, — good-by.” 


88 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

This speech, and the resolution which it ex- 
pressed, cost a huge effort of will. He would have 
liked nothing better than to sit down and enjoy a 
comfortable little visit with her. But he forced 
himself to consider that the place was Paris, 
and that she was alone, and to recognise that it 
wouldn’t do. 

She gave him her hand. He held it for a mo- 
ment, reveling in its warmth and softness. Finally 
he tore himself away. 

He drove over to the Gymnase, and secured a 
baignoire for the following evening. On his way 
back, he stopped at a restaurant for breakfast. 
Toward one o’clock he reached his own room, 
Hdtel de I’Univers, Rue Gay-Lussac. 

He threw himself into an arm-chair, and began 
to wonder how he should survive the night and day 
that lay between him and his next meeting with 
Denise. 

“ For more than twenty-four hours I shall not 
see her. For more than twenty-four hours my life 
must stand still and wait. Merciful heavens, how 
shall I kill the time ? ” 

The bare thought of the long, blank period that 
would have to drag away before he could again be 
with her, — the bare thought of it racked his brain, 
like the thought of eternity ; made his heart stop 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 89 

beating ; made his breath come in heavy, labored 
gasps. He must banish the thought from his mind. 
He must find some means of distracting his atten- 
tion. He must find some occupation, must busy 
himself with something. Merely to sit, and wait, 
and count the seconds, would drive him mad ; so 
intense was his desire, so great the stress of his 
impatience. If — if he could but fall asleep, and 
not wake until the wished-for moment was arrived ! 
Life, which many people complain of as too short, 
was for him too long by some thirty interminable 
hours. By that amount he would gladly have 
abridged it. 

He sprang up from his seat, and started to and 
fro through his room, striding caged-lion fashion, 
and counting his steps, “ One, two, three, four,” — 
up to sixty, which, he calculated, would make a 
minute. Every now and then he would halt, and 
draw a deep, loud sigh, and frantically crush his 
temples between the palms of his hands. Very 
silly and irrational conduct, to be sure ; but thus 
it is that most impetuous, warm-blooded young 
fellows carry on, at this interesting tide in their 
affairs. 

By and by he dropped into a chair again, and 
lighted a cigarette. He smoked without relish, 
simply for the sake of passing the time. As quickly 


90 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


as he consumed one cigarette he lighted another 
from its expiring sparks. Presently he counted the 
stumps. Ten. He guessed that it must now be 
pretty nearly four o’clock. He secretly thought 
that it was later ; but his thought might be the 
offspring of his wish, and he said four, so as to be 
on the safe side, and preclude the possibility of dis- 
appointment. He looked at his watch — which for 
a long while he had purposely abstained from 
doing. He looked at his watch. . . . Must he be- 
lieve his eyesight ? By all the furies ! It was only 
half-past two. 

“ Oh, Lord ! I can’t stand this ! ” he cried. “ I’d 
better go out for a walk.” 

He walked the streets for the rest of the after- 
noon. He walked directly across the city as far as 
the Parc Monceau ; thence to the Arc de Tri- 
omphe ; thence to the Trocad^ro ; thence along the 
quays to the Place de la Concorde ; thence to the 
Invalides; thence, by a tortuous route, through 
narrow, crooked, picturesque streets, back to the 
Boulevard St. Michel. A long, circuitous walk, 
as any one may see by glancing at a map of Paris. 
Also an interesting walk ; but to its interest he was 
impervious. He walked at top-speed, his eyes 
fixed straight ahead, glancing neither to the right 
nor to the left ; again merely for the sake of kill- 


A LATI/V-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 91 

ing time. The quantity of time thus disposed of 
was precisely two hours and forty minutes. It was 
now ten minutes after five o'clock. 

He seated himself at a caf^ table on the boule- 
vard, and called for beer. 

“ Beer," he remarked to himself, “ is a sedative. 
It will calm my nerves.” 

As he sipped his soothing draught, he mused : 
“ If only in this big city I knew somebody whom 
I might call upon, in whose society I might while 
away an hour or two ! If only in this crowd, con- 
stantly passing and repassing on the sidewalk, I 
might meet an acquaintance, espy a friendly face ! 
Yes, there’s Palmer, to be sure. But Palmer isn’t 
exciting enough ; and, besides, I have no right to 
inflict myself upon him. Ah, Denise, Denise ! 
Where is she now ? What is she doing ? What is 
she thinking about ? Not about me ; that’s certain; 
I may make up my mind to that. Oh, Lord ! Still 
a night and a day before I can see her ! ’’ 

He emptied his glass, and ordered another.^ 

At the table next to his a young lady was seated 
alone. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat; a 
very close-fitting gown of some dark red stuff di- 
versified by large white dots ; and a pair of high- 
heeled patent-leather slippers, the tips of which 
peeped out from beneath her skirt like a couple of 


9 7 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

bold black eyes. Her face (a sufficiently pretty 
face ; a saucy, roguish face) seemed familiar to 
Ormizon. By accident, he caught her eye. She 
smiled, and volunteered, “ Bonsoir, monsieur.” 

Ah, yes ; he remembered. This was the young 
lady who sold him his cigarettes and his postage- 
stamps, in the little shop next door to his lodg- 
ings. 

Bonsoir,” he returned curtly, without lifting 
his hat, and addressed himself to his beer. 

Not to be rebuffed, “ Monsieur a I’air triste,” 
she observed with the intonation of sympathy. 

Vraiment ? ” was his response, more curtly still. 

She subsided. 

But pretty soon an idea occurred to him ; a 
temptation presented itself. 

“ Why not ? ” he soliloquized. It could not do 
no possible harm. It would help me to wear out 
this everlasting night. “ It would keep me from 
thinking about — it would make me forget. It 
would be a diversion, an excitement. Anything, 
rather than this impatience, this suspense. Any- 
thing to hurry the time along. I — it — ” 

He got up, left his table, and took the unoccu- 
pied chair at that of his neighbor. 

The next few hours passed rapidly enough. 
They dined together at a Duval, and afterwards 


A LATnV-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 93 

went to the Hippodrome. At eleven o’clock, be- 
fore the entrance of the fair tobacconist’s domi- 
cile, Rue Royer-Collard, Ormizon bade her good- 
night. 

“ Eh, comment ? ” she cried. “ Oh, bi’n ! Bon- 
soir, et merci pour une soiree trds amusante.” 

In his own room he covered his face with his 
hands, and moaned aloud : 

“ Oh, what a low, miserable brute you are ! Oh, 
how I loathe you ! How weak you are — how base 
— how contemptible ! If I could but recall this 
evening—undo it — blot it out ! I — I have been 
disloyal to her. How shall I ever dare to look her 
in the face again ? I have contaminated myself. 

I am not fit to breathe the same air that she 
breathes. How can I hope to win her now ? I 
deserve — yes, I deserve to lose her. The idea ! 
That she should love a low, weak thing like me ! 
Oh, God ! Oh, God forgive me ! ” 

What had he done ? He had given Mademoi- 
selle C^lestine a better dinner than she was ac* 
customed to, and had afforded her a couple of 
hours of harmless entertainment at the Hippo- 
drome. But, if he had committed a sneak theft, 
he could not have despised himself more bitterly ; 
if he had committed a murder, he could not have 
repented it more passionately. Sickened by his 


94 


A LATIX-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


memory of the thing, tortured by his remorse as 
by a coal of fire burning in his breast, he passed a 
most miserable night. 

“ Yet, if I had not loved her so,” he cried, I 
never should have done it. How strange ! how 
strange ! ” 


VII. 

Tuesday morning, along with his coffee, D6sir^, 
the gar 9 on, brought him a letter. Its superscrip- 
tion was in a handwriting which he had never seen 
but once before, yet which he recognized at a single 
glance. The sight of it now did not by any means 
leave him unmoved ; nay, indeed, it occasioned a 
very singular aberration in the action of his heart, 
causing that organ simultaneously to leap and to 
sink. To leap, for obvious reasons : the letter 
came from her. To sink, because in connection 
with it a hideous thought flashed upon his mind. 
Why should she be writing to him, unless some- 
thing had happened to interfere with the arrange- 
ments that they had perfected together at their 
conference yesterday ? If affairs remained in statu 
quo, this missive was unnecessary and inexplicable. 

“ Oh, yes ; I suppose she has written to inform 
me that the doctor had a previous engagement, or 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 95 

— or I don’t know what — and that they can not 
go. Just my confounded luck ! ” 

For a while he held the envelope intact in his 
hand, and stared at it with a countenance that was 
at the same time savage and caressing. At last, 
muttering, “ Well, here goes,” he tore it roughly 
open. He closed his eyes for a moment, and 
sought to muster his courage. ‘‘ Well, there’s no 
use playing the ostrich. Here’s my fate confront- 
ing me. I’ve got to grin and bear it. It won’t 
mend matters to procrastinate,” he said, finally, 
and, with the composure of despair, proceeded 
to read : 

“ Monday Afternoon. 

Dear Mr. Ormizon, — Isabel wishes me to ask, 
will you not come to take dinner with us to-mor- 
row (Tuesday) evening, before the theater ? In 
order that we may have plenty of time, we shall 
dine early — at six o’clock. She has set her heart 
upon having you come, and I hope you are not 
going to disappoint her. Have you read any 
Browning yet ? 

“ Sincerely yours, 

“ Denise Personette.” 

Of course the reaction was instantaneous and 
excessive. At first he could scarcely credit his 
eyesight ; but a second perusal left no room for 
doubt. He carried the paper to his lips and kissed 


96 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

it rapturously. He danced about his chamber in 
an ecstasy, humming a merry tune, like a child with 
a new toy. He apostrophized himself : “ Well, 
you are a lucky dog ! Well, you’d better thank 
your stars ! Well, by Jupiter ! ” He took on 
generally in a very ridiculous, exuberant, boyish 
manner. By and by he sat down at his table to 
indite an acceptance. 

“ Dear Mademoiselle Denise — ” 

No. That wouldn’t do. That was too familiar. 
He tore the sheet up, and began anew : 

“ Dear Mademoiselle Personette, — Your 
note has given me greater pleasure than I can 
say ; and I shall certainly be on hand promptly 
at six. Meantime, I shall try to alleviate my im- 
patience by reading Browning, which, I blush to 
own, I have not yet done. 

“ Please express my very best thanks and com- 
pliments to the doctor, and believe me, 

“ Yours always, 

“ Stephen Ormizon.” 

But after he had sealed this communication, 
and addressed it, he hesitated. 

“ They ought not to be inviting me to dinner,” 
he reflected. “ They can’t afford it. And I 
ought not to accept their invitation. . . . Yet I 
don’t exactly see how I can decline it, without 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 97 

hurting their feelings. And besides — besides, it 
would be such jolly good fun. I suppose it would 
be awfully bad form for me to — so to speak — to 
turn the tables, and ask them to dine with me. 
Yes, I’m afraid it would. Still, they — they’re not 
sticklers for the ceremonies ; and if I employed 
tact — if I made the proposition gracefully — it 
might not do any harm. Well, I guess — I guess 
I’ll risk it. Yes, I absolutely mustn’t let them 
spend their money dining and wining me.” 

With which he commenced a third note to 
Denise : 

Dear Mademoiselle Personette : — It was 
quite odd that you should have sent me the very 
kind note which I have just received, and for 
which I beg you and the doctor to accept my 
warmest thanks. It was odd, because at the very 
moment when it was handed to me, I was getting 
out my paper to scratch off a line to you. The 
temptation is now strong upon me to leave what I 
was about to say unsaid. Still, your judgment is 
better than mine, and perhaps I may as well sub- 
mit the matter for your consideration. Of course 
I shall abide by your decision. Well, then, I was 
on the point of writing to tell you that if you and 
the doctor would do me the honor of dining with 
me this evening at the Foyot, you would make me 
very happy. Now, as I say, I leave the question 
in your hands. To be your guest, or to be your 


98 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


host ; it is a choice of felicities which I have not 
the strength of mind to make. 

“ The messenger will bring your answer. 

“ Yours always, 

“ Stephen Ormizon.” 

He leaned out of his window, and hailed the 
commissionnaire who had his stand on the curb- 
stone below. By the hands of this functionary he 
dispatched his questionable message. 

He waited in a state of wretched uncertainty for 
her reply. He had written very stiffly, very fee- 
bly, he felt ; and perhaps she would be offended. 
In somewhat less than a quarter-hour the com- 
missionnaire returned. But this time the hand- 
writing was not Denise’s : 

“ Dear Mr. Ormizon : — Denise, having to hurry 
off to a lesson, asked me to answer your note. I 
know you’ll be broken-hearted, but I can’t help it. 
My handwriting is not so pretty as hers, I am well 
aware ; but it is legible, and will in the present 
case answer for all practical, if not for all senti- 
mental, purposes. 

“ Eh bien ! do you know, sir, that you are most 
imprudent to trust * a choice of felicities ’ (that 
phrase is immense ; where did you strike it ?), so 
grave as the one you mention, to a young and im- 
petuous damsel like Denise ? This is a text upon 
which I could develop a long homily ; but, as the 
facteur is waiting, I forbear. Denise has cast the 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 99 

‘choice ’ in favor of Foyot. Which goes to indi- 
cate that she has the making of a gourmet in her ; 
upon which indication, my young friend, reflect. 

“ Finally, shall we meet you at the restaurant, or 
will you call for us ? 

“ En tout cas, monsieur, agr^ez I’assurance de 
ma plus haute consideration. 

“ Toujours k vous, 

“ Isabel B. Gluck.’* 

“ Wait an instant,” he said to the messenger. 
Then he scribbled, — 

“ Dear Doctor : — Thanks infinitely. I will call 
for you at a quarter before six. Meantime, I am 
“ Yours faithfully, 

“ S. O.” 

Which finished the business. 

In the course of their dinner, he said to Denise : 
“ That volume of Browning you lent me — I have 
been reading it all day long.” 

“ Oh, have you ? Well ? ” 

“ It was a revelation to me. I had never known 
anything like it. I found, when I had once taken 
the book up, I could not put it down. It was as 
absorbing — it was more absorbing than a novel.” 
Which of the poems did you read } ” 

“ Well, I began with Fra Lippo Lippi.^' 

“ Ah, that is one of the very best.” 

• LofC. 


100 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


“ It is ? Well, I should have suppose^! so. At 
least, I shouldn’t suppose it would be easy to 
surpass it. It’s beyond praise. Goethe himself 
might have been proud to have written it. It has 
so much human nature in it, so much wit, so much 
humor, in addition to its lofty, noble poetry. 
Then, aside from its other splendid qualities, it 
contains the clearest, the most scientific statement 
of the true philosophy of aesthetics that I have 
ever seen. I — I was absolutely carried away 
by it.” 

“ Oh, I was sure you would be. Nobody could 
read Browning understandingly, and not be. He 
is irresistible. Well, and after Fra Lippo ? ” 

“ After Fra Lippo I attacked Bishop Blougram' s 
Apology^ which, in its way, I liked quite as much. 
It’s the strongest defense that -could be made for 
faith in revealed religion. It beats Butler’s Ami- 
ogy, Paley’s Theology^ all hollow, on their own 
ground.” 

“ I think / must begin to read Browning,” said 
the doctor, “you children rave so about him. 
That poem about mesmerism, that Denise read the 
other night — there was a great deal in it.” 

“ Why,” Ormizon continued, “ there are a dozen 
lines or so in Blougram that would have 7nade any 
ordinary poet.' You remember. Mademoiselle 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


lOI 


Denise, where the bishop says, ‘ All right. Let us 
then, declare ourselves agnostics, free-thinkers, 
what you will, forthwith,’ and then goes on, 

‘ Where’s 

The gain ? how can we guard our unbelief, 

Make it bear fruit to us ? — the problem here. 

Just when we are safest, there’s a sunset touch, 

A fancy from a flower-bell, some one’s death, 

A chorus-ending from Euripides, 

And that’s enough for fifty hopes and fears, 

As old and new at once as nature’s self, 

To rap and knock and enter in our soul, 

Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring. 

Round the ancient idol, on his base again — 

The grand Perhaps ! ’ 

I don’t know when I have read anything so beau- 
tiful, anything so inspiring, anything so true. He 
speaks right out of the depths of human experi- 
ence.” 

“ Yes, it’s very fine,” acquiesced the doctor. 

“ Oh, it is glorious ! ” cried Denise. “ It is 
thrilling. I am so glad you think as I do, Mr. 
Ormizon.” 

“ I am thankful to you, mademoiselle, for having 
put me in the way of thinking as you do. I’m 
going to study Browning systematically now. 
This afternoon I ordered his complete works at 
Galignani’s.” 

“ And yet,” exclaimed Denise, with a scorn that 
might have withered the laurels on the laureate’s 


102 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 

brow, “ and yet people will go on talking about 
Tennyson, and calling him the greatest living 
English poet ! Oh ! ” 

“ Oh, well, they’ll get over that in time,” Ormi- 
zon said, consolingly. 

‘‘ On n’est jamais prophete en son pays, ni en 
son temps,” observed the doctor, sententiously. . . . 
“ How delicious these mushrooms are ! ” 

“ Perfectly lovely,” agreed Denise. 

** It’s true, they’re not bad,” Ormizon admitted. 

And then, somehow, it seemed to strike each of 
them that there had been rather an abrupt descent 
from the sublime to the commonplace ; and spon- 
taneously they broke into a merry laugh at their 
own expense. 

Presently, “ I, too, have been enjoying a literary 
treat, since I saw you, Mr. Ormizon,” Denise 
announced. 

“ Yes ? ” he queried. What was it ? ” 

“ I have been reading A Voice from the Wilder- 
ness ^ 

“ Oh ! ” he cried, blushing. 

‘‘Perhaps you may think I took too great a 
liberty,” she pursued. “ But I will tell you how it 
was. I began to copy the first chapter, and I got 
so interested that I could not rest until I had read 
it through and found out how it ended. I thought 


A LATIAr-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


103 


you would not mind, seeing that I was going to 
copy it all. Now, anyway, I have confessed my 
sin. If you think I was indiscreet, you may scold 
me.” 

“ Why, what an idea ! But of course — you’re 
laughing at me. You know it’s a great compli- 
ment.” 

“ No ; honestly, I feared your displeasure. The 
temptation, as I have said, was so strong, I could 
not resist it. Yet, without comprehending pre- 
cisely why, I did feel as though I had not any 
right to do anything but copy, without paying 
attention to the sense. I have been reproaching 
myself ever since. I was afraid you might be 
angry. I am so relieved. But, as I was going to 
say — ” She paused abruptly. 

“ Yes ? ” he questioned. 

“ Perhaps I ought not to tell you.” 

“ Oh, on the contrary. It’s your bounden duty. 
Tell me, please.” 

“ I dare say you will think me awfully silly.” 

“Oh, no, I shan’t. Go on. I’m dying to 
hear it.” 

“ Well, I began it yesterday afternoon, and — 
and I — sat up all night to finish it.” 

“ Did you, really ? Why, how could I think that 
silly ? It indicates prodigious wisdom.” 


104 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“ And — and it made me cry so, I have had a 
headache all day long.” 

Oh ! ” with an expression, facial and vocal, of 
exceeding distress. “ I’m so sorry ! I — I never 
meant to make you cry.” 

This was said apparently in all ingenuousness 
and good faith. But his auditors seemed to re- 
gard it as a brilliant witticism, or bit of humor. 
First, Denise began to laugh ; then the doctor 
speedily followed her example ; while Ormizon, 
with a blank face, wondered what the joke was. 

By and by, sobriety being restored, Denise 
demanded, But why did you make it end so 
sadly ? ” 

“ I tried to make it end as I thought it would 
actually have ended in real life.” 

“ Why, do you think things generally end badly 
in real life ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; I don’t mean that. I mean, I tried 
to observe the laws of cause and effect, and to 
make the end the natural consequence of what had 
gone before. I tried to make it end in the man- 
ner that the circumstances had rendered inevita- 
ble. To my mind, the ending was inevitable from 
the beginning. Didn’t it seem so to you ? Didn’t 
the climax seem natural, logical ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, logical enough, natural enough. But 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 105 

that did not make it any less sad, less disappoint- 
ing, any easier to bear. And then, another 
thing : do you yourself really believe what you 
made Rivington say about the control of matter 
over mind ? ‘ Among the many dismal truths 

which modern science has forced upon us, none is 
more disheartening than this : that the mind, the 
spiritual part, of man, is not merely intimately 
related to, but is absolutely dominated by, the 
material part, his body. A local organic disease 
may not merely cloud and enfeeble his intellect, 
but may totally pervert and deprave his moral 
nature, as numberless instances have proven ; may 
turn the benevolent man into a misanthrope, the 
truthful man into a liar ; may supplant love with 
hatred, refinement with grossness, disinterested- 
ness with self-seeking.’ Do you yourself really 
believe that, Mr. Ormizon ? ” 

Was it not calculated to set any young author’s 
heart a-palpitating, thus to hear himself quoted 
verbatim by the loveliest lady of her generation ? 
So it affected Ormizon’s, at any rate. She punctu- 
ated her inquiry by raising her eyes expectantly to 
his. At the meeting, a new palpitation swept his 
bosom, and a blush mounted to his forehead. 
Whereupon, by the strangest of concidences, 
Mademoiselle’s damask cheek displayed for an 


io6 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

instant a similar red ensign ; and simultaneously 
the two pairs of eyes were dropped upon the 
table-cloth. 

“ Er — well,” he began, in a matter-of-fact key, 
returning to her question, “ as a general thing, you 
know, I shouldn’t like to be held responsible for 
the opinions of my characters. But here, in this 
special case, it isn’t a matter of opinion ; it’s a 
matter of statistics. I don’t see how any one can 
help believing it. As Rivington says, no end 
of instances prove it. The physicians’ records 
are full of them. Isn’t that so, doctor?” 

“ Oh, yes ; that’s so, undoubtedly. But the 
force of all that is offset by the discoveries that 
are being made by the Society for Psychical Re- 
search. Their experiments have conclusively dem- 
onstrated that, while ordinarily the mind is un- 
questionably subject to the body, under certain 
conditions the mind becomes absolutely indepen- 
dent of the body, transcending all the limitations 
of matter, and of time and space. Still, it can’t be 
denied that very frequently, as you say, a physi- 
cal lesion may result in a radical change of the 
patient’s character and disposition.” 

“ Oh, but that is so horrible ! ” cried Denise, 
“ It never occurred to me before. But if it is true 
— oh-h~h! It makes one shudder. But I think 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 107 


your — what would you call it ? — not plot, exactly — 
your idea — your theme — I think that was beautiful. 
To have him long so ardently to believe in God 
and immortality ; and yet all the time be dragged, 
forced, furtlier and further, deeper and deeper, into 
materialism, pessimism, cynicism, and all that ; and 
then, suddenly, forget everything, escape from all 
his doubts and fears, and- find perfect peace and 
happiness in love. But why — why did you let 
her die?” 

“ Well, as I said, I thought under the circum- 
stances her death was inevitable. But then, besides, 
I wanted him to realize that love isn’t enough ; 
that at best it is only a temporary refuge ; that 
it can’t permanently fill the place of religion. I 
wanted him to discover that the same grim, 
awful, relentless problems were still there, stand- 
ing where he had left them, outside his lady’s 
chamber, waiting to confront him at his exit. 
After she died, you know, his old longings, his old 
doubts and perplexities, hopes and fears, came 
surging upon him with more tremendous force 
than ever.” 

“ Yes, I see. But it is dreadfully hard on the 
reader. You made her so lovely and beautiful ; 
and then to have her die, — oh, it — it was like los- 
ing one of one’s own friends, almost. I thought 


io8 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

I should never stop crying. Oh, I really do not 
think it is fair to your reader to make your book 
end badly. Do you, Isabel } ” 

“ Well, I don’t know about that,” returned the 
doctor. “ That’s a question of first principles, 
and would admit of a good deal of debate.. But 
there’s one thing I do know, surely ; and that is, if 
we don’t start right away, we’ll be late for the 
play.” 

Ormizon looked at his watch. 

“ By Jove,” he ejaculated, “ that’s a fact. Well, 
I declare, how the time has flown ! ” 

They hurriedly wound up their dinner, and left 
the restaurant. Outside, they took a cab. Ormi- 
zon helped in the ladies, and was then about to 
establish himself upon the little narrow front seat, 
facing them, when Dr. Gluck protested : 

“ No, no, now. We’re not going to let you sit 
cramped up over there. It isn’t at all necessary. 
There’s lots of room here between us. Isn’t there, 
Denise ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; lots,” concurred Denise. 

“ Oh, I can’t think of crowding you ladies,” he 
rejoined. “ I shall be perfectly comfortably here — 
on the strapentin.” 

“ But you won't crowd us. Just look^" cried the 
doctor, edging over toward one side, while Denise 


A LA TIN- Q UA R TER CO UR TSIllP. I o 9 

drew in toward the other. “ Don’t you see ? There 
are oceans of room here. And we should feel so 
uneasy to see you all doubled up over there. 
Shouldn’t we, Denise ? Come ; do be nice, now, 
and do what we ask.” 

So he sandwiched himself in between the ladies, 
and throughout the drive enjoyed the blissful con- 
sciousness of Denise’s arm touching his own. 

They reached the theater just as the curtain was 
going up. ^ 

Denise and Dr. Gluck sat forward in the baig- 
noire, and concentrated their attention upon the 
stage. He sat behind them, in the dark, and con- 
centrated his attention upon Denise. It was a keen 
delight, thus, without let or hindrance, to be per- 
mitted to feast his eyes upon her. Far more in- 
teresting than the comedy in progress beyond the 
footlights, he found the play of expression visible 
in her face and person. Now she would bend 
eagerly forward, lips parted, breath bated, eyes 
wide open, intent upon some decisive episode, anx- 
iously watching for its denouement ; then she 
would lean back in her chair, and draw a deep sigh 
of relief, or smile at the humor, or laugh at the ab- 
surdity of it, turning to the doctor for sympathy in 
her emotion. The betises of Monsieur Perrichon 
afforded her infinite amusement ; but she took the 


no A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

sentimental business very seriously, following the 
devious course of the love affair with rapt atten- 
tion, and now and then allowing to escape her a 
soft little “ Mon Dieu ! ” or “ Bon ! ” When the 
curtain dropped upon the first act, she clapped her 
hands with much enthusiasm ; after which she 
turned around to Ormizon, and gave utterance 
to all her accumulated enjoyment in an impulsive 
little monosyllable : “ Oh ! ” 

During the interlude they walked about the 
foyer ; and for the first time in his life he expe- 
rienced the delicious sensation of having Denise 
lean upon his arm. 

When the play was over, and they left the thea- 
ter, he, of course, was for taking a cab home. But 
the doctor would not hear of it. 

It was all right to take a cab coming,” she 
explained, ‘‘because we were in a hurry. But 
we’re not in the slightest hurry now ; and the om- 
nibus is plenty good enough. Isn’t it, Denise ? ” 

“ Plenty,” Denise responded. 

So with the omnibus he had to put up. In the 
end he was not sorry ; for it fell out that he and 
Denise sat side by side, with the doctor opposite ; 
and thus, as the roar of the wheels drowned their 
voices to third persons, he and she were enabled to 
indulge in the following confidential conversation: 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


Ill 


“ I have had such a good time, Mr. Ormizon.” 

Have you, really ? I’m very glad. So have I.’^ 
Now, this may not seem like very much of a con- 
versation to the reader ; but it set our hero’s heart 
into a wondrous flutter. For Denise employed a 
low, intimate, earnest tone of voice ; and besides, 
in speaking, she brought her lips pretty close to 
his ear ; and — oh, joy ! — for an instant he felt her 
warm, soft breath upon his cheek ! 


VIII. 

On the morning after Monsieur Perrichon., Ste- 
phen Ormizon wrote a long letter to his mother. 
Certain paragraphs toward the end of it read as 
follows : 

“ And now, my dearest mother, I have some- 
thing to tell you, which is of very grave impor- 
tance. It is something which I feel I ought to 
tell you, yet which I am afraid you will not like. 
Yes, I am afraid it will give you great pain. In 
fact, I know it will. But I think it would be wrong 
for me to conceal it from you, nevertheless. I think 
I owe a frank confession of it both to you and to 
myself. Much as it will displease you, I am sure 
that in the long run both you and I would suffer 
more if I should fail to make a clean breast of it at 
once. So now I will try to state the whole business 


1 12 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 

to you as clearly as I can. In advance, I beg or 
you to give me a fair hearing. Read what I have 
to say through. Don’t get angry, and throw it 
aside, or tear it up. 

“ Well, then, this Mademoiselle Personette whom 
I have told you so much about — whom I have de- 
scribed to you as so good, so intelligent, so beauti- 
ful — and who lives with our friend Dr. Gluck in 
the Rue Soufflot — well, in the few days of our ac- 
quaintance I have grown to love her with all my 
heart and soul. Don’t for an instant, mother, don’t 
imagine that my feeling for her is any mere pass- 
ing caprice or fancy, which I shall get over. You 
would only be uselessly deceiving yourself. You 
may as well make up your mind right away to 
this : my love for Mademoiselle Personette is the 
serious love of a man for the woman in whom he 
discerns those qualities which he knows his own 
nature will need in his wife. I love her so much 
that I would be whiling to give up everything else 
in the w^orld, to the end of winning her ; so much 
that, if I fail in winning her, life will have lost all 
its value and charm for me, and I would be glad 
to die. Whether she cares anything for me, or 
not ; w’hether there is the least likelihood that she 
will ever care anything for me, of course I do not 
know. Sometimes I very much fear that she doesn’t, 
and never will. At other times I am more hope- 
ful. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter one way or the other 
for the purposes of this letter. The point I wish 
to speak with you now about is this. 


A LATIN'-QUARTER COURTSHIP. I13 

“Before I left New York last October, you told 
me — what, of course, I had as good as known for 
years — that it was the one paramount desire of 
your heart that I should marry Fanny — as soon as 
I got ready to settle down and marry any one at 
all. You said that Fanny, on her side, had agreed 
to have me ; and you asked me to promise to do 
in this matter as you wished. In my unwisdom — 
for, if I had been less unwise, I should have an- 
swered very differently — in my unwisdom, not in 
the least realizing the meaning of what I did, not 
stopping to appreciate the gravity of the obligation 
which I undertook, I answered that, although I 
did not love Fanny at all, I did love you, and would 
therefore, for your sake, promise to make her my 
wife. I might have gone further, and said that, so 
far from loving her, I did not even like her ; I did 
not even believe in her ; that, with her assertive 
piety and self-righteousness, she was even posi- 
tively obnoxious to me. But I knew that this 
would grieve you ; I could not see that it would 
do any good : so I held my tongue. On the un- 
derstanding, then, that I would consider myself 
betrothed to Fanny, I left you and came abroad. 

“ Well, as I say, if I had been wiser — as wise as 
I am now — I never should have dreamed of making 
such a promise. In the first place, I should have 
foreseen this chance of my some time meeting an- 
other woman whom I could really love. In the 
next place, I should have understood that to marry 
a woman whom you do not love, is to do not only 


1 14 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


yourself, but her^ a great and irreparable wrong ; 
is to bind her and yourself in a monstrous form of 
slavery, from which there is no escape but death. 
Altogether apart from the fact that I am in love 
with another woman ; even if I were not in love 
with anybody ; leaving myself out of the question 
entirely ; in the light of my more mature intelli- 
gence, I honestly think that it would be a viola- 
tion of every right principle of morality and of re- 
ligion for any man, under any circumstances, to 
enter into the peculiarly holy state of matrimony 
with a woman whom he did not love, in the full 
sense of the word love. That is my honest con- 
viction, looking at the question from an absolutely 
impersonal point of view. Very well ; how much 
more immoral and irreligious would it be for a 
man to marry one woman, when he actually is in 
love with another ! Then, if the other woman 
loves him in return, there are her feelings, there is 
her life-long happiness, to be considered, too. 
These views which I express this way are common- 
places, platitudes. But the living truth that re- 
sides in them I never realized until I found myself 
in love with Denise. Commonplaces, platitudes, 
however, though they be, you certainly can not 
have realized their truth, or you would never have 
exacted that promise from me. Even now, I dare 
say, you will be disinclined to admit their truth. 
But I will venture to say that if you should put 
this question before any intelligent, high-minded, 
unprejudiced man, he would agree with me. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 1 15 

Well, now, to come back to our own case. I 
shrink from occasioning you any pain or disap- 
pointment ; I don’t want to be selfish or unduti- 
ful ; I do want to do that which is really right and 
just. If I could convince myself that it would be 
right and just for me to renounce Mademoiselle 
Personette, and come home and marry Fanny, 
much as the sacrifice would cost me, I believe I 
would do it. But I cannot so convince myself. 
On the contrary, I am convinced that it is right 
and just for me to ask you to release me from my 
engagement with Fanny. I feel that it is right 
and just to me, to the lady I love, to Fanny, and 
\.o you. For I am sure of this : that if, feeling as 
I do, I should marry Fanny, you also would in- 
evitably have to bear a share of the misery that 
such an unnatural union would cause ; you would 
have to suffer the consequence of it, along with 
her and me. Look at the facts : I don’t love 
Fanny ; I do love Denise Personette. Fanny does 
not love me — may very likely in the course of 
time come to love somebody else. Now, I say, for 
Fanny and me, under these circumstances, to 
marry, would entail untold unhappiness upon her, 
upon myself, upon you, upon everybody that was 
in any way concerned. And therefore, in all ten- 
derness and respect, I beg you to write to me say- 
ing that you liberate me from my promise, and 
giving me your consent to woo Denise.” 

He wrote the letter that contained these para- 
graphs, upon the spur of an impulse. He sealed 


Ii6 A LATIiV-QUARl'ER COURTSHIP. 

it, and committed it to the post, at once — before 
he had time to consider, to repent. On second 
thoughts, he did repent. He was sorry that he 
had not waited a while longer about making his 
avowal ; sorry that he had not couched that avowal 
in softer and more persuasive phrases. But he 
recognized that his repentance was futile ; that the 
thing was done beyond undoing ; and so, like a 
sensible fellow, he shrugged his shoulders ; said, 
well, there was no use crying over spilled milk ; 
and determined to stifle his regret for the past, 
and fear of the future, in the delights of the 
present. 

All that day he kept up a debate with himself 
touching the propriety of his calling upon the 
ladies of the Rue Soufflot in the evening. He tried 
hard to convince himself that there was no good 
reason why he should not yield to his inclination ; 
but obstinately a still, small voice retorted, “ No, 
my dear boy, you mustn’t run this thing into the 
ground. It won’t do. You’ll wear out your wel- 
come if you don’t take care. Besides, you — they’d 
— they’d get a pretty strong suspicion of what the 
matter is ; and, I take it, you don’t want to give 
yourself away yet awhile.” 

“But,” he demanded, “if I don’t go there, what 
shall I do with myself? How shall I pass the 


A LAThV-QUARl'ER COURTSHIP. 1 17 

time ?~forget this craving for the sight of her 
face? Ah ! I have it ! I’ll call on Lancelot.” 

So, after his dinner, he made for the Hotel du 
St.-Esprit. 

The landlady was established in an easy-chair 
on the sidewalk near the entrance. 

Bonsoir, madame. Monsieur Palmer, is he at 
home ? ” he began. 

^‘Monsieur Pahmah?” returned the landlady, 
looking up, with a blank face. “ I do not know 
him, sir.” 

“Why, it is a young American painter.” 

“ Ah, perfectly ! You wish to say, Monsieur Pal- 
maire. Ah, monsieur, he is gone out, since a half- 
hour.” 

He turned away, disappointed. 

It was a deliciously tender summer evening. 
The breeze, warm and soft, bore a faint, sweet 
summery smell, and murmured amorously in the 
listener’s ear. The stars shone like a multitude of 
languishing, passionate eyes. There was distant 
music in the air. As on that balmy afternoon 
in the gardens of the Luxembourg, every other 
young fellow had his Dulcinea clinging to his arm. 
Just the conditions, meteorological and otherwise, 
to make a fond heart grow fonder still. 

“Oh, hang it,” cried Ormizon, “ I can’t stand 


1 1 8 A LA TIN- QUAR TER CO UR TSHIP. 


this. I’m going to call on her, I don’t care what 
happens.” 

And he marched resolutely to her house and up 
her staircase. 

Dr. Gluck opened the door. 

“ Oh, it’s you ! ” she exclaimed. “ It’s so for- 
tunate you’ve come. We were just wishing you 
might.” 

“Ah,” he responded. “It’s very kind of you to 
say so.” 

“Yes,” she continued, “you see, Lancelot is 
here, with a plan. We want you to join us 
in it.” 

Denise greeted him with a charming little smile, 
a warm little hand-shake, and a demure little 
“Good-evening, Mr. Ormizon.’^ 

“How d’ye do? How are you?” inquired 
Lancelot. “ How wags the world with you ? ” 

“ First-rate, thanks. And now, the plan ? ” 

“ Oh, the plan’s a simple one,” Lancelot in- 
formed him. “I was proposing to these ladies 
that we make up a party and spend next Sunday 
in the Bois de Meudon. That’s all.” 

“ That we go out by an early morning train, and 
come back in the evening,” added the doctor. 

“ That we get our breakfast and our dinner 
there, al fresco,” Denise concluded. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 119 

“Well, now, what’s your opinion of it?” Lance- 
lot demanded. 

“ It’s a capital idea,” Ormizon affirmed. “ Only, 
I would offer this slight amendment. On Sunday, 
there’s always a crowd at Meudon — students, shop- 
keepers, and such like ; which would be rather dis- 
agreeable. So I suggest that we make it Monday 
instead of Sunday.” 

“ By George,” cried Lancelot, “ right you are. 
That never occurred to me ; but it’s pregnant 
with wisdom. Mr. Ormizon, you are the posses- 
sor of a remarkable brain. There’s a large pre- 
ponderance of gray matter, and the convolutions 
are deep.” 

“ Thank you for your kind appreciation,” said 
Ormizon. 

“Oh, how droll!” exclaimed Denise. 

And she and the doctor went off in one of their 
explosions of laughter. 

“ Well, then, Monday it shall be — hey ? ” asked 
Lancelot. “ We’ll meet at the railway station on 
Monday at nine o’clock ?” 

“ Yes,” they all assented. 

After which, for an hour or so, there was general 
and desultory conversation. 

Finally, “ I don’t believe you ladies know what 
a fine night it is,” Ormizon observed. “It’s a pity 


120 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

to Spend it in-doors. Let’s go out and have an ice 
on the boulevard.” 

His suggestion was adopted ; and the ladies 
withdrew to put on their bonnets. 

Lancelot took advantage of their absence to 
remark, confidentially, “ Say, Ormizon, I hope you 
won’t be offended ; but I guess I’ll let you and the 
women-folks go for those ices alone. I guess I’ll 
bid you good-night when we reach the street.” 

“ Why, what an idea ! Why should you do 
that ?” 

“Well, the fact is, I don’t believe I've got money 
enough on me to pay my share.” 

“ But, man alive, this is my treat. I invite the 
whole crowd. You can’t possibly object to that — 
just for once. And we’d all feel dreadfully to have 
you desert us. You’d break up the party.” 

“Well, I hope you won’t think me a sponger, a 
dead beat.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! It would be a pity if you 
couldn’t ever accept an invitation.” 

“Well, it’s against my principles. But, in the 
words of Rip Van Winkle, we won’t count it this 
time, hey ? ” 

The doctor and Denise came back. 

They walked round to a patissier’s on the Rue 
de Vaugirard, opposite the Luxembourg. Of 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


I2I 


course they paired oif ; Lancelot giving his arm to 
the doctor, and Ormizon his to Denise. 

On the way, in a low and tender voice, “ Isn’t it 
a lovely night, mademoiselle ? ” he inquired. 

“ Oh, delicious,” she replied, “ heavenly ! — ‘ La 
brise est douce et parfum^e,’ ” — humming softly 
the air from “ Mireille.” 

“ I don’t know,” he went on, with the intonation 
of one making a broad and important generaliza- 
tion, “ I don’t know that I have ever seen quite so 
pleasant an evening before.” 

“ I,” she said, reflectively, “ I have never seen 
one that was more pleasant.” 

“ There is a peculiar softness in the air.” 

“Yes; and, while it is warm enough, it is not a 
bit too warm.” 

“ No ; the temperature seems to be about right. 
I hjpe this fine weather is going to last.” 

“ Oh, I hope so. What a pity if it should rain 
on Monday ! ” 

“ Oh, horrible ! Perish the thought ! ” 

“ Of course one cannot foresee. The weather is 
so capricious. It may do so.” 

“ Certainly. Still, we — ” 

“ What are you two young folks conspiring 
about now ? ” broke in the voice of the doctor, 
from behind. “ You have the appearance of deep 


12 2 A LA TIN-Q UAR TER CO UR TSHIP. 

and awful mystery. Come ; Lancelot and I are 
dying of curiosity.” 

Thereupon, for the first time, it occurred to Or- 
mizon that they had been talking about the 
weather. After all, when we are conversing with 
our lady-love, it isn’t the matter of our discourse 
that counts. 

Arrived at the patissier’s, they installed them- 
selves at a table on the sidewalk, where they could 
get the full benefit of the fresh, racy odors that 
come from the gardens across the way. Here 
they sat, consuming ices, and exchanging pleas- 
antries, till about eleven o’clock. When they 
started for home, they paired off again. But this 
time there was some grave mismanagement ; for 
Ormizon discovered that Lancelot and Denise were 
walking together in front, while he, with the doc- 
tor on his arm, brought up the rear. 

Don’t you like Lancelot ? ” the doctor asked. 

“ Oh, yes ; he’s a very nice fellow,” he replied, 
absently. 

“ So original ; isn’t he ? ” 

“Yes, very.” 

“ Do you think he’s in love with her ? ” 

“ With De — with Mademoiselle Personette ? Oh, 
no ; I don’t think so.” 

“ They’d mate splendidly, though; wouldn’t they?” 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 123 

“ Well, I don’t know.” 

“Yes, I think he’d make an excellent husband 
for her. But of course, he’s so poor, it’s out of 
the question. He couldn’t support a wife.” 

“ No ; I suppose not.” 

“ Well, I dare say she’ll live to be an old maid, 
like me. She’ll never marry a Frenchman, any- 
how.” 

“ Ah ? ” 

“ No. You see, she hasn’t any dot.” 

“Oh !” 

“ Do you know my private opinion ? ” 

“ No : what is it ? ” 

“ My private opinion is that you are head over 
ears in love with her.” 

“ Oh — why — oh, what an idea ! ” 

“ Oh, there’s no use denying it. You can’t pull 
the wool over my eyes. It’s as plain as the nose 
on your face. Well, I don’t wohder. I should be, 
too, if I were a man. You’ve got a level head.” 

“ I hope, doctor, that you haven’t said anything 
as absurd as this to Mademoiselle Personette.” 

“ Oh, no ; of course I haven’t. It’s none of my 
business. And, besides, why should I ? It would 
only worry her.” 

<< Do — do — do you think — I — stand any chance?” 

“ Ah, then you admit it ? ” 


124 A LATIN QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

‘‘ No. I don’t admit anything. I put the ques- 
tion hypothetically.” 

“ Well, then, if you don’t admit it, if you merely 
put the question hypothetically, I don’t believe you 
stand the least ghost of a chance — not the shadow 
of a shade of a chance.” 

“ Oh, good Lord ! Really ? Is — is there some- 
body else ? For mercy’s sake, don’t trifle with me 
about this. Tell me the whole truth, right out. 
I — I can stand it.” 

“ Well, really, I don’t see why you should care 
one way or the other — if you deny the soft im- 
peachment.” 

“ Doctor, I will confess to you, in confidence, 
since you seem already to have divined it, I will 
confess to you that I love her with all my heart. I 
adore her. Now, tell me, have I any chance ? ” 

“ In confidence, in absolute secrecy, then, I will 
tell you — ” 

“ Yes — quick ! ” 

“You promise to make no improper use of the 
information ? ” 

“Yes, yes. For Heaven’s sake go on.” 

“I will tell you, then, that — I haven’t the 
shadow of an idea.” 

“ Oh, Lord ! ” he groaned. “ Oh, you are cruel, 
to torture a fellow like that ! ” 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


125 


There, there,” she said, pressing his arm. 

Have patience, have courage. There's nothing 
absolutely repugnant or hateful about you. I 
don’t see why you shouldn’t win her, or any other 
woman, if you go about it in the right way, and try 
hard enough. Now, mind you, I don’t believe the 
idea of caring for you has ever entered her head — 
yet. But I suppose on general principles that 
her heart is not impregnable. And so 1 say, be 
not despondent. I’ll tell you one thing, nothing 
could please me better.” 

“ Thank you, doctor. Then you are my ally t ” 

“Yes ; that is, you have my best wishes.” 

“Vous voila, enfin! ” cried Denise. “Lance- 
lot and I have waited these five minutes. How 
slow ! ” 

They had reached the house in the Rue Soufflot. 

“ Well, good-night, messieurs,” said the doctor. 
“ And don’t forget : Monday at nine o’clock, at the 
Gare Mont Parnasse.” 

“ That means,” thought Ormizon, “ that I am 
not to call upon them between now and Monday 
morning.” 


IX. 

Somehow the four intervening days dragged 
their weary length away, and Monday morning 


126 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

came, warm and clear. Denise and the doctor 
were already there when Ormizon reached the Gare 
Mont Parnasse, Ah, the delicious heart-thrill, 
when she gave him her tiny hand, and lifted her 
bright brown eyes in welcome upon his face ! She 
wore a jaunty straw hat, that was exceedingly 
becoming to her ; and she carried a dainty little 
black silk parasol, with a handle of curiously 
carved ivory. 

“ Ah, here comes Lancelot,” cried the doctoi 
“ I was afraid he was going to be late.” 

“ And do look at his collar,” added Denise. “ I 
should think it would guillotine him.” 

Lancelot came striding up, his coat-tails flying 
behind him. In his hand he held a long, oblong 
wooden box, presumably containing sketching- 
materials. His throat was encircled by a mon- 
strously high standing collar, the points of which 
met under his chin ; the style of collar that is 
affected nowadays by young gentleman of fashion 
when they put on their evening suits. Its effect 
was decidedly incongruous with the rest of Lance- 
lot’s easy attire, especially on this sultry August 
morning. 

“ Well, young folks, here we are,” was his greet- 
ing. “ And now, then, en avance ! Marchons ! 
All aboard ! ” 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


127 


They found an empty second-class compartment, 
into which they clambered. Next instant the 
doors were slammed, the bell was rung, the loco- 
motive shrieked ; and they were off. Fifteen 
minutes later, Meudon, Meudon ! ” sang out the 
guards ; and they descended. 

Now/’ said Lancelot, “ I take it I express the 
sentiment of the majority, when I remark that the 
first thing in order is to seek some refreshment 
for the inner man. I know a restaurant in the 
forest, about half an hour’s walk from here, where 
one can feast royally. Let’s steer for it without 
delay.” 

Trusting themselves to Lancelot’s guidance, 
they began their march — under the solemn old 
trees, over the soft green moss. Half an hour, 
three-quarters of an hour, an hour, an hour and a 
half, elapsed ; and still they had not reached the 
restaurant. Lancelot kept assuring them, We’re 
almost there.” They kept complaining of extreme 
hunger, and threatening to die of starvation in 
their tracks. 

“ Aha ! ” Lancelot suddenly cried, striking a 
theatrical attitude. Oh, ye faithless ones! Ye 
indefatigable naggers ! Behold ! The haven of 
our hopes, the goal of our desires ! ” 

Looking in the direction that he indicated, they 


128 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

beheld, embowered among the trees, some fift)" 
yards to the right of the road-way, a small wooden 
house, scarcely more than a shed or a shanty, upon 
the weather-beaten fagade of which, in giant black 
letters, was emblazoned the following device : 

RESTAURANT DE LA GAROTTE D OR. 

ON DONNE A BOIRE ET A MANGER. 

ENGLISCH SPOKEN - MAN SPRICHT DEUTCH. 

For the restaurant of the golden carrot they 
made in frantic haste. Under the trees round 
about were scattered a number of rough rustic 
tables. One of these they speedily surrounded, 
and began to rap upon it for the waiter. 

I never was so hungry in all my life before,” 
proclaimed Dr. Gluck. 

‘‘ Nor I.” ) 

“ Nor I.” [ In chorus from the others. 

“ Nor I.” ) 

“ Well, now, we must go in for a breakfast that 
shall deserve a place in history — something at 
once delicate and substantial, varied and abundant. 
Mr. Ormizon, you do the ordering. Bring your 
massive intellect and your fervid imagination to 
bear upon the task, and effect, if possible, a result 
that shall satisfy the soul as well as the palate.” 



A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 129 

“ I’ll try,” said Ormizon, modestly. Ah, here 
comes the waiter.” 

An elderly man, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a 
cigar, came shambling up. 

“ Bonjour, messieurs, mesdames,” he greeted 
them, with the usual Parisian sing-song. 

“ Bonjour,” returned Ormizon. “ The bill of 
fare, if you please.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, we have no bill of fare. Mon- 
sieur may command whatever he desires.” 

“ Well, then, let us see. Voyons un peu. . . . 
Well, we will begin with a melon ; a fine one, 
mark you ; ripe to the point. It must be as cold 
as ice, as sweet as honey. It must melt like sugar 
upon the tongue, and diffuse its exquisite aroma 
throughout the senses. You understand ?” 

‘‘ Ah, oui, monsieur. Un beau melon, bien mfir. 
Et puis ? ” 

** Et puis — and then — well, and then a fried 
sole. Now, bestow great care upon that sole. 
She must be as fresh as dew upon the mountains, 
as crisp as the air of early morning. You may 
dress her with a sauce of mushrooms, and perfume 
her with the most delicate conceivable whiff of 
garlic. After the sole, a bifteck — thick, juicy, red, 
and tender ; served with fried potatoes and string- 
beans Fnally, fruit, cheese, and coffee. Let that 


130 A LATIAT-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

coffee be divorced from chicory. Make it as black 
as night, as bitter as sorrow. And now, as to 
wine. Well, we’ll be moderate in the matter of 
wine. Bring us a couple of bottles of St. Emilion. 
There ; that’s all. But mind : we are excessively 
difficult, we others, and shall expect great things 
of you. We want this breakfast to be a unique 
affair, a chef-d’oeuvre.” 

“ Ah, oui, monsieur ; have no fear. Our kitchen 
is known in all the country,” replied the old waiter, 
and shambled off. 

“ That’s a fact,” added Lancelot. They have 
a great reputation ; and I think we may trust them 
for a first-rate meal.” 

‘‘ It made my mouth water just to hear you 
name those good things,” said the doctor ; 
“ especially the sole.” 

And mine, too,” said Denise; “especially the 
melon. This is just the sort of morning for a 
fresh, cool melon.” 

“ And mine, too,” said Lancelot ; “ especially 
the bifteck. I hope it’ll be a big one, and I hope 
they’ll hurry up.” 

“ But why did you omit a salad ? ” asked the 
doctor. “ I think a salad would be just the thing.” 

“ Oh, to be sure. I forgot it. I’ll order one at 
once. Hello ; here’s our venerable friend return- 


A LAT/N-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 13 1 

ing now. I say, gar9on, I forgot to tell you that 
we should need a salad, also. A romaine, if you've 
got one, with a plain dressing and a chapon." 

“ Helas, monsieur," the old waiter began, “ we 
are desolated. We offer to messieurs, mesdames, 
all our excuses. But it appears, monsieur — " 

“Yes? Well?" 

“ It appears that the crowd of yesterday — ah, 
monsieur, il y avait tant de monde ! — that all our 
provisions have been consumed. You see, mon- 
sieur, Sunday is our day. On Monday, above all, 
we do not attend of the world, and unhappily we 
are not prepared. Those of yesterday have left, 
in fact, but two bottles of wine — a good wine of 
Bordeaux, it is true — one bread, and sixteen eggs. 
That is all, messieurs, mesdames." 

It would be difficult to convey an adequate idea 
of the consternation which this speech produced 
among our famished friends. 

“ Bon dieu ! " cried Denise. 

“ Gracious me ! " cried the doctor. 

Lancelot spake not ; but he turned as white — 
as white as the redoubtable collar that bound his 
throat. 

Ormizon was the first to recover a little his 
presence of mind : 

“ Well, this is really awful, you know ; there’s no 


132 A LAl'JN-QUARTEH COURTSHIP. 

two ways about it. Still, we must bear up under it. 
We musn’t allow ourselves to be crushed. Grin 
and bear it ; never say die ; don’t give up the ship, 
you know ; and all that. Maybe it's not so bad 
as it looks. Perhaps — wait ; I’ll ask him.” Ad- 
dressing the gar9on, “ Is there another restaurant 
anywhere near here ? ” he demanded. 

“ Oh, yes, monsieur ; a very good one, in the 
village.” 

“ In the village ! None nearer ? How long 
would it take us to reach it ? ” 

“ No, monsieur, none nearer. It would require 
perhaps two hours of walking.” 

“Two hours ! ” exclaimed Denise, aghast. Her 
emotion overcame her. She pronounced it, as 
French people will, when they are strongly moved, 
“ Two hhours ! ” 

“ Oh, that’s out of the question. It’s not to be 
thought of,” cut in the doctor. “We should never 
survive the journey.” 

“ Never,” concurred Lancelot ; “ at least, not 
the six hundred. I don’t believe I could drag my- 
self a dozen yards. No ; the only thing to do is to 
put up with what they can give us here. Sixteen 
eggs — well, that makes four apiece ; and they say 
there’s lots of nourishment in eggs. Then the 
bread and the wine,— oh, we shan’t actually starve. 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. I33 

We’ll contrive to keep soul and body together — 
Dites done, gar9on : tell your cook to make an 
omelette of those sixteen eggs — an omelette aux 
fines herbes, if you have any estragon and ciboule. 
Serve that with your bread and your wine ; and, 
above all, be quick about it ; make haste ; for we 
die of hunger.” 

They waited in rather a dismal silence till the old 
man came back with the things ; whereupon im- 
mediately they fell to, and, still in silence, — for 
they were too seriously hungry to enliven the re- 
past with talk, — consumed omelette and bread, till 
not a vestige was left of either. Then Lancelot 
leaned back, and drew a deep breath, and declared, 
well, he felt somewhat better. 

“ Tenez,” cried Denis. “ What is this that he 
brings ? ” 

The old waiter drew near, bearing an immense 
bowl of salad. 

While messieurs, mesdames, were occupied 
with their omelette, I have entered the fields there 
below, and gathered this quantity of doucette,” 
he explained ; “ of which we have made a sal- 
ad. We dare to hope that it may compensate a 
little to messieurs, mesdames, for the frugality of 
their breakfast.” 

Their joy was too deep for utterance. They 


134 A LATIiV-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

attacked the doucette vigorously ; nor did they 
rest till the last leaf had disappeared. It was an 
excellent salad, moreover, with just the right pro- 
portion of oil and the proper suggestion of garlic. 
What with the wine that they had imbibed, they 
were by this time quite refreshed and cheerful. 
Their spirits mounted ; their tongues loosened. 

“ After all,” reflected the doctor, “ we might 
have gone further and fared worse. For my part, 
I'm perfectly contented.” 

“ For me,” affirmed Denise, “ I think it was great 
fun. It was an experience.” 

“ It was very jolly and romantic,” Ormizon said. 

“ Well, you folks are easily satisfied,” observed 
Lancelot. “But I — I own I’m haunted by the 
thought of that bifteck — thick, juicy, red, tender — 
which our friend Ormizon here so eloquently des- 
cribed. It was a great, a noble, an heroic con- 
ception. Alas that it should have failed of execu- 
tion ! ” 

“Why, I declare, here come the old waiter 
again ! ” cried the doctor. 

“ Oh, let us trust that he has discovered some- 
thing more to cat,” Lancelot ejaculated, with the 
fervor of prayer. 

“ Why — why, look — don’t you see ? — he’s got a 
violin,” pursued Dr. Gluck. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 135 

** Oh, Lord ! That’s a fact,” groaned Lancelot. 

We can’t eat a fiddle.” 

“ Perhaps,” questioned the old man, “ mes- 
sieurs, mesdames, would like to amuse themselves 
a little ? I can play the waltz, the polka, the 
galop — what you will. I put myself at the com- 
mand of messieurs, mesdames.” 

“ Oh, a dance, a dance, by all means,” was the 
unanimous response. 

In a twinkling they were whirling in a swift 
waltz over the mossy earth, while the old man 
lashed the strings of his instrument till they 
shrieked for mercy. Ormizon, clasping Denise’s 
waist, and holding her little warm hand in his, 
blessed from the bottom of his soul the inspiration 
that had possessed the aged waiter, and deter- 
mined to reward that functionary with a pourboire 
that should make his eyes open. Lancelot’s coat- 
tails illustrated the principle of centrifugal force 
by standing out horizontally behind him. Round 
and round the dancers spun until, breathless and 
exhausted, for sheer fatigue they sank upon the 
ground. Lancelot panted like a race-horse at the 
finish ; and the perspiration poured in streams 
from his forehead, down his cheek, and over his 
tower-like collar ; which however, appeared imper- 
vious to the moisture, retaining its pristine gloss 


13 ^ A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


and consistency. Suddenly he started up, crying, 
“ By George ! As sure as I’m alive, there are 
poppies growing in that meadow over yonder. 
Don’t you see those points of scarlet ? Excuse me 
for a jiffy.” And off he went poppy-hunting. 

During his absence, “ Did you notice his 
collar ? ” Denise inquired, in a low, awed tone. 

“Yes ; it didn’t wilt, or anything. It passes my 
comprehension,” said the doctor. 

“Wonderful,” admitted Ormizon. 

“ There’s something weird and uncanny about 
it,” Dr. Gluck went on. “ Let’s make him ex- 
plain it.” 

“ Yes ; it’s like sorcery,” added Denise. “ (^a 
vous fait peur.” 

“ Here he comes back. Now, Mr. Ormizon, we 
appoint you a committee to probe this mystery to 
its bottom. I shan’t be easy till we have dis- 
covered the solution of it.” 

Lancelot returned, the richer for a good-sized 
bunch of poppies, which he divided between the 
ladies. Denise fastened one of the flame-red 
flowers in her hair, behind her ear, where it pro- 
duced an effect very Spanish, picturesque, and 
charming. 

“ Lancelot,” Ormizon began solemnly, “ I have 
been commissioned by these gentle but inquisitive 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 137 

friends of ours to request of you certain informa- 
tion. From the moment of your advent among 
us this morning, we have been tremendously im- 
pressed by your collar. Its luster, its altitude, the 
grace and the dignity of its architecture, have not, 
I assure you, been lost upon us ; nor have the con- 
summate ease and thoroughbred insouciance with 
which you have supported it. The emotions that 
it inspired, however, deepened into astonishment, 
not unmixed with fear, when we beheld how 
stanchly it withstood the consequences of your 
waltzing. Now, with all due respect, we are an- 
xious to learn what the secret of it is : its history, 
its chemistry, all about it.” 

“ Why, certainly,” replied Lancelot. “ Happy 
to accommodate you. I’m sure. This collar is 
what I call my dude collar. I got it to wear when 
I went into society. I’m glad you folks have 
appreciated it. The secret of it ? Why, children, 
you’re years behind the times. This collar is made 
of what the French call linge am^ricain — in sim- 
ple English, celluloid.” 

Whereupon they had a good laugh all around. 

“ Well, come ; don’t let’s stay here forever,” the 
doctor said. “ Let’s go for a ramble in the forest.” 

They rambled about the forest till late that after- 
noon. Whenever they stopped to rest, Lancelot 


138 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

got out his paints, and improved the opportunity 
to make a sketch ; while they grouped themselves 
behind him, and watched the progress of his brush, 
or gave him the benefit of their intelligent com- 
ments and suggestions. “ I’d deepen that shadow 
a little, if I were you, Lancelot ” — “ A little more 
yellow in that sunshine ”• — “ Yes, he’s caught that 
cloud-effect very well ” — “ Not quite enough 
warmth in his middle distance, though,” etc., etc. 
For a long time Lancelot stood it like a Spartan. 
At last, however, the strain became too great for 
flesh and blood. He started up, and, with a low 
bow, offered his palette and his brushes to Ormi- 
zon, saying, I tell you what. You just go ahead 
and finish it, will you ? There’s a good fellows 
And show us how it should be.” After that they 
let the poor painter hammer out his own salvation, 
unassisted. There was no pairing off to-day, alas ! 
though Ormizon kept picturing to himself the 
felicity that would be his, if he and Denise could 
but wander off alone together, down one of those 
stately, grass-grown avenues, under the great trees, 
away, away, into the pearly haze at the horizon. 
It seemed to him there could be no spot on earth 
more appropriate to love-making than this fine old 
forest of Meudon ; and yet — and yet, there were 
the doctor and Lancelot so close at their heels that 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 139 

he and Denise couldn’t so much as say yes or no to 
each other without being overheard. Nevertheless, 
to saunter at her side, to carry her parasol, to listen 
to her laughter, to gaze into the starry depths of 
her eyes — that was something ; that was not to be 
despised. “ Oh, how beautiful she looks,” he 
thought, “ so poetic and interesting, with that scar- 
let poppy behind her ear, and the landscape for a 
background ! If I had only plucked it, and given 
it to her, instead of Lancelot ! By Jove, if — if I 
had never cared for her before, I should fall in love 
with her to-day.” It may be asserted generally 
that in the country, as in the spring, a young man’s 
fancy lightly turns to thoughts of a sentimental 
nature. There is something about the quiet, the 
solitude, the sweet air, the green grass, the shadowy 
nooks, the sunlit pathways, the birds, the wild flow- 
ers, the whispering breezes, the babbling brooks, 
etc., etc., that exerts a wonderfully stimulating 
influence upon all the amorous fibers in a young 
person’s bosom. 

They took the five-o’clock train for Paris, — 
having, in consequence of the emptiness of the 
larder at the Garotte d’Or, to forego the dinner al 
fresco that they had looked forward to. Arrived 
in town, they made straight for an Etablissement 
Duval ; and there, I promise you, they commanded 


14 © A LA7'Ijy-QUARrEK COURTSHIP. 


such a banquet as more than satisfied even the 
insatiable Lancelot. Ormizon has repeated the 
menu to me : consomme, filet de sole, ris de veau 
aux petits pois, rosbif aux champignons, haricots 
verts, artichauts a I’huile, framboises et fromage de 
creme, abricots, cafe, cognac. ’Tvvas well they had 
healthy appetites and good digestions. Their con- 
versation, as they sat around the table, turned upon 
Dr. Gluck’s hobbies, psychical research and spirit- 
ualism. She told in a graphic and rather blood- 
curdling style of many of her own experiences ; 
how she had seen chairs walk unaided about a 
room, how she had shaken hands and held creepy 
consultations with materialized visitants from the 
other world, and so on ; and succeeded in working 
up the interest of her auditors to a high degree. 
In the end she proposed that they should all spend 
the evening in the Rue Soufflot and try their luck 
at table-turning ; a proposition to which they 
readily assented. 

Acting under the doctor’s generalship, they 
cleared off the books and things upon the center- 
table in the salon ; and then they sat down around 
it, resting their finger-tips lightly upon the top 
near the edge. It was an unsubstantial table of 
wood, perhaps three feet square, and weighing not 
more than ten pounds at the utmost 


A LAl'IN-QUARl'ER COURTSHIP. 141 

“ Now/' said the doctor, we must all touch 
hands. This way. See ? Stretch out your little 
fingers, and touch those of your neighbors both to 
right and left, so as to form a circle." 

Ormizon liked this. It was very pleasant to 
keep his little finger in constant contact with 
Denise’s. 

The room was lighted by a single candle. The 
doctor explained that the spirits wouldn’t come if 
there was a bright light. 

“ May we talk ? ” Lancelot asked. 

“ No ; I guess we’d better not,” replied the 
doctor. “ Music is generally regarded as a favor- 
able condition. But talk would be likely to keep 
them away." 

Lancelot began to whistle. “ We won’t go home 
till morning," was the tune he selected. 

“ Oh ! Please ! You don’t call that music, do 
you ? ’’ cried the doctor. 

He cut the melody short ; and they remained in 
silence for some ten or fifteen minutes. The table 
had thus far shown no disposition to cast off its 
inertia. But stay — suddenly — what was this ? 

A distinct vibration was perceptible in it. It 
trembled. It shook. It swayed energetically from 
side to side. Then it stopped, and was quiet 
again. 


142 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“ Oh ! Oh-h-h ! " murmured Denise, scarcely 
louder than a whisper. “ I am so afraid ! ” 

“ Sh-sh ! There’s nothing to be afraid of,” 
whispered the doctor. “ This is splendid.” 

Neither of the young men made any sign. 

The table now remained motionless for it may 
have been a minute ; at the end of which period it 
began, very slowly, to tip upward in the direction 
of Ormizon, and downward in the direction of 
Lancelot, who was facing him. It kept its balance 
in this position for a few seconds, when it slowly 
returned to its natural place. 

“ Gosh ! ” exclaimed Lancelot. 

‘‘You know,” said the doctor, “three raps mean 
yes ; two raps mean no. Now I’m going to ask. 

. . Is — there — a — spirit — present?” she demanded, 
making each syllable very loud and clear, and 
pausing after each word. 

Slowly the table tipped upward, and descended 
with a rap upon the floor, three times : yes ! 

“ Oh, do not, do not let us go on,” pleaded 
Denise. “ This is horrible.” 

“ Hush — hush ! ” the doctor implored her. 
“ They’ll go away if you talk like that. Now I’m 
going to ask its name. You know, I will repeat 
the alphabet ; and when the right letter is reached 
the table will rap. Then some one must write that 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


143 


letter down ; and I’ll begin the alphabet again, and 
it will rap at the second letter ; and so on to the 
end. This is a pretty slow process, but it’s about 
the only practical one I know of. — Now, who’s got 
a pencil ? Ah, thank you, Lancelot. All right 
There ; now I’ll repeat the alphabet ; and you, 
Mr. Ormizon, you write down the letters. . . . 
Will — you — spell — out — your — name ? ” — ad- 
dressing the spirit. 

Three raps. 

Very well. . . . A — b — c — d — e — ” She con- 
tinued as far as T, at which point the table 
rapped. Ormizon wrote T upon his paper ; and 
the doctor began anew, “ A — b — c — ” etc., till O 
was reached, when again the table rapped, and 
again she started, “ A — b — c — ” 

It was a slow process. So much time elapsed 
between each letter and its successor that nobody 
remembered those that had gone before. By and 
by, after having bumped the floor at D, the table 
rapped thrice — which, the doctor said, meant that 
the spelling was concluded. 

“ Well, what is its name ? ” they all queried 
eagerly of Ormizon. 

He handed the paper to Dr. Gluck. 

“ Well,” she said, with great solemnity, “ the 
letters are all written out in a line, without being 


144 A LATiy-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

divided. Let me see. T — O — M — M — Y — 
T — O — D — D — Tom — Tommy — Tommy Todd.” 

Lancelot burst into a wild guffaw. Ormizon 
followed his example. Denise laughed, too ; but 
her laughter was nervous, her amusement evi- 
dently being tempered by fear. 

The doctor alone preserved her gravity. “ What 
are you laughing at ? ” she inquired. 

“ Tommy Todd ! ” shrieked Lancelot. Tom- 
my Todd ! ” And his laughter shook him from 
head to foot. 

“ It is an odd name — for a spirit,” the doctor 
admitted. “ They often do have very odd names 
indeed. But you mustn’t laugh that way. He’ll 
take offense, and go off. Come ! Be serious. I 
want to see whether we can get a communication.” 

Lancelot controlled his mirth. 

The doctor asked, Have — you — a — communi- 
cation — for — any — person — here ? ” 

Three raps. 

** For whom ? . . . Now write, Mr. Ormizon. 
. . . A— b— c— ” 

After the doctor had repeated pretty nearly the 
entire alphabet three times running, the mono- 
syllable ‘‘ you ” was found written upon Ormizon’s 
paper. 

“ Me ? ” she queried. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 145 

The table rapped in the affirmative. 

“ Oh, isn’t this exciting ! " she cried, all aglow 
with expectancy and pleasure. “ Isn’t this splen- 
did ! ” 

For the next five or ten minutes she was kept 
busy saying her a-b-c’s. In the end the communi- 
cation proved to be : 

“ You needn’t holler so at me. I ain’t deef.” 

Lancelot had another convulsion. 

The doctor’s physiognomy expressed her sorrow, 
her disappointment. Making the best of it, how- 
ever, she demanded, in a subdued voice, “ Is — that 
—all ? ” 

“ No,” the table answered, rapping twice. 

“ All right. . . . A— b— c— ” 

This communication was a lengthy one. But 
by and by, after an eternity of spelling, it was 
complete : 

Wall, I vum ! You say your letters fuss-rate. 
Where ju learn um ? I am a weird, clammy, cross- 
eyed crittur. Ugh ! E pluribus unum. Three 
cheers for Mary, three for the lamb. I am thy 
father’s ghost. Hooray ! ” 

, The punctuation was the result of a joint effort 
on the part of the doctor and Ormizon. 

“ Oh, pshaw ! ” sighed the doctor. “ How pro- 
voking ! ” 


146 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“ Oh, what nonsense ! ” cried Denise. “ Some 
one is cheating. It is — I am sure it is Mr. Ormi- 
zon.” 

‘‘ No ; on my word of honor,” protested Ormi- 
zon, “ I am as innocent as you are yourself.” 

“ Oh, no ; nobody is cheating,” said the doctor. 
“ They often do send these absurd messages. It 
is supposed to be due to some imperfection in the 
conditions. . . . Well — is — that— all ? ” 

“ Tap— tap — tap,” replied the table. 

“ Have — you — a — communication — for — any — 
other — person — here ? ” 

“ Tap — tap — tap.” 

“ For — whom ? A — b — c — ” 

The result was : “ Denise.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” Denise exclaimed, starting up. ** I 
do not wish to receive any communication. No ; 
this is too horrible. Please — I beg of you — let us 
stop it. I know I shall not be able to sleep a 
wink all night, if we go on. Please, Isabel, let us 
stop at once. It is so — oh-h ! ” 

” Oh, dear, dear ! ” sighed the doctor. “ What a 
pity ! Just when we were getting started so splen- 
didly, to have to discontinue ! We may never have 
such a chance again. However, since it frightens 
Denise, we must not go on. Dear, dear ! ” 

So they left the table. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


147 


The doctor began to discuss what had hap- 
pened in a very learned and scientific style. The 
others listened gravely enough, till all at once, 
“Tommy Todd!” cried Lancelot, slapping his 
leg, and had a more frantic attack of laughter than 
before. Ormizon and Denise joined him. At this 
Dr. Gluck became indignant. “ Well, really,” she 
declared, with great asperity, “ I must say I think 
you are very frivolous and absurd.” 

When the young men were starting to take their 
leave, “ Well,” began Lancelot, “ I hate to dissi- 
pate your fond illusions, doctor, but I feel that it 
is only fair for me to confess that I did it.” 

“ Did it ? Did what ? ” questioned the doctor. 

“ Why, tipped the table. I, alone and unassisted, 
with my own right hand, performed those prodi- 
gious feats which an ill-advised modesty induced 
me to attribute to Thomas Todd.” 

“ What ! Oh, you — you — ! ” cried the doctor, 
choking with anger. “ You ought to be ashamed 
of yoarself. I — I’ll never forgive you — never ! ” 

“ Oh, thank you for owning up, Lancelot. I am 
so glad, so relieved,” said Denise. 

“ Honestly, it was awfully mean of you,” went 
on the doctor. “ Such monkey-shines ! It proves 
that you have no serious interest in science. Well, 
good-night.” 


148 A LA7'nV-QUARTE2i COURTSHIP. 


X. 

Ormizon, as we know, was to sail for New York 
on the 26th of September. He had engaged his 
passage for that date aboard the steamship La 
Touraine^ from Havre. He had done this, it 
seemed to him, a million years ago, in a dimly re- 
membered era of obscurity and chaos, when the 
world was without form and void, and darkness was 
upon the face of the deep. He had done it before 
the flood ; under the old regime ; in his grub pe- 
riod; ere his soul had burst from its chrysalis and 
spread its wings. He had done it, that is to say, 
before he had made the acquaintance of Denise 
Personette. 

But done, nevertheless, it was. The fact re- 
mained, like a monument of antiquity that had sur- 
vived change, conquest, revolution. There in his 
pocket-book, tangible and legible, lay his ticket, a 
vestige of his former life, a legacy from his dead 
self ; not by any means a welcome or pleasing 
one. 

His first blind impulse was to revoke and cancel 
the whole business ; not merely to put off his de- 
parture, but to abandon the notion of departing 
altogether, and to abide forever where he was — in 
Paris, with, or at least near, Denise. But of course 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. I49 

a very little sober reflection sufficed to make the 
wildness and infeasibility of this scheme patent to 
him. Then he turned back, and began seriously 
to meditate prolonging his furlough, deferring the 
day of his farewell. Needless that we should fol- 
low the debate he thereupon held within himself. 
His desire cried, “Ay ! ” His reason argued, “ Nay.” 

“ What’s the use ? As long as I’ve got to go 
sooner or latter, what good can come of procrasti- 
nation ? The wrench of parting will be all the 
harder the longer I delay it. And then — besides — 
my mother. She expects me home ; is eager for 
my return. I owe it to her not to disappoint her. 
I owe her that much consideration. Add to which 
— add to which, that if I want her to respect my 
wishes in this little matter concerning Fanny, it 
would be most impolitic to start by offending her 
and getting her into a bad J?umor. Oh, Lord, yes! 
I suppose I shall have to stick to the 26th.” 

After a good deal of vacillation, — for it was con- 
stitutional with him to vacillate, — he went over one 
day to the office of the ship’s company, in Rue 
Scribe, to inquire tentatively what arrangements 
he might be able to make for a later sailing, should 
he find himself so disposed. He learned that no 
berth was to be had earlier than the second Satur- 
day in November. 


150 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


“ Ze rosh of autumn,” explained the urbane, 
English-speaking clerk. “ All ze worl’ go home. 
Gran’ crowd. No room, unless you take officer’s, 
w’ich cos’ you hun’red, hun’red fifty, dollar extra.” 

That decided him. He could not think of wait- 
ing till the middle of November. His mother 
would be broken-hearted if he failed her at Thanks- 
giving. He could not afford to pay a hundred 
dollars extra. Will he, nill he, now he must “ stick 
to the 26th.” 

“ All right,” he soliloquized, resigning himself 
to destiny. “ So be it. If — if Denise gives me 
any encouragement — if she accepts me ! — I’ll go 
home, arrange my affairs, pacify my mother, find, 
if possible, a publisher for my novel, and then — and 
then come back and marry her ! But if— if she 
gives me the mitten — if I see there’s no hope for 
me — if worse comes to worst — why, then I’ll go 
home and stay, and — oh, and support the misery of 
existence the best way I can. One thing, though, 
I won’t do, whatever happens. I won’t marry 
Fanny.” 

From which time forth he endeavored constantly 
to exile the dread day from his thoughts ; to pre- 
vent his mind from dwelling upon it ; to close his 
eyes, and, ostrich-like, ignore how steadily, how re- 
lentlessly it was approaching. 


A LATIN^QUARTER COURTSHIP. 15 1 

All the while, naturally, he kept asking himself, 
“ Does she care for me ? Is she so much as in a fair 
way to care for me ? Is there the least likelihood 
that she ever will care for me ! " — “ Care for me,” 
be it observed ; not “ love me.” Very seldom, 
even in his own secret pondering of this question, 
did he use the word love. He dared not. That 
word was too sacred, too awful. It called up a too 
vivid and dazzling vision of the thing itself. His 
feeling about this was not unlike that of the pious 
Jew, who can not be induced to write or speak the 
name of God, Jehovah, but substitutes for it a dif- 
ferent set of sounds and letters, Adonai. — “ Does 
she care for me ? Will she ever care for me ? ” — 
Alas, he never could get hold of anything like a 
final, permanent conclusion. Now, a trifle light as 
air, a word, a look, a gesture, a mere inflection of the 
voice, would set him afire with hope, and send him 
home intoxicated, beside himself with joy, to lie 
awake all night, nursing his precious memory of 
the thing in his bosom, and feasting his imagina- 
tion upon its corollaries. Anon, another word, 
look, gesture, what not, would plunge him 
into the darkest pit of despondency and 
dejection, and afflict his heart with the sick- 
ness of hope deferred. A thousand times he 
resolved to set his spirit at rest by speaking to her. 


152 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

A thousand times he changed his mind, saying, 
“ No, not just yet. Wait a little longer.” Again 
and again, of course, he had rehearsed in fancy the 
scene that would take place between them : what 
he would say, and how he would say it ; what she 
would say, and how she would say it ; and all the 
rest. But he dared not put his fortune to the 
touch. The chance of rejection was too appalling. 
“ No, no ; not yet. I must give her time to be- 
come a little better acquainted with me.” Besides, 
would it be quite the thing for him to declare his 
passion to her, until he had received from his 
mother an answer to his letter of August 12th? 
Until his mother’s answer should arrive, he must 
consider himself in a certain sense betrothed 
to another woman. ' This consideration, however, 
was a secondary and incidental one, and had very 
little real weight with him, as events presently 
proved. 

The days and the weeks slipped away with breath- 
taking speed. Suddenly, lo ! it was September 24th, 
and to-morrow night he must leave Paris for 
Havre ; and still — ill omen !— -the expected letter 
from his mother had not come ; and still he was in 
doubt about his fate. 

“ Well, I can’t wait any longer,” he said. “ I’ve 
been a fool to wait so long. To-night I’ll call 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. I53 

Upon her, and get the doctor to leave us alone to- 
gether ; and — ^and then — ” 

Ah, how his heart bounded at the prospect ! 

That afternoon he walked in the Luxembourg 
Gardens. The sunset had faded, and it had grown 
almost dark, before he left them. He emerged by 
a gate that led into Rue de Vaugirard. He had 
just entered that thoroughfare, and was sauntering 
slowly in the direction of the Boulevard St.-Michel, 
when, from behind, a pedestrian, whose gait was 
faster than his own, overtook and passed him. 
What was his surprise, his delight, to recognize in 
this personage — as he did, at once — none other 
than Denise ! She was hurrying along as rapidly 
as her tiny footsteps could bear her. 

A few swift strides brought him nearly abreast 
of her. 

“ Mademoiselle — Mademoiselle Denise ! ” he 

called. 

Hearing this voice, quite unexpectedly, so close 
to her ear, and before she had seen the speaker, 
frightened her thoroughly. She started, shrank 
away towards the curbstone, gave a little cry, and 
then stood motionless, as though uncertain whether 
to fly or stand her ground. 

He understood in an instant how careless he had 
been. He could have flogged himself. His emo- 


154 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


tions overwhelmed him, defied restraint, rushed to 
his lips, and were uttered before he knew it : 

“ Why — Denise — don’t — don’t you know me ? 
Oh, did I frighten you ? Oh, forgive me— forgive 
me, Denise — my — my little girl.” 

She looked up at him, face blanched, eyes big 
with fear. 

“ Oh, it is you ! ” she cried, with a great sigh of 
relief ; and impulsively she put out her hand, and 
caught his arm. 

He could feel her tremble. 

“ Oh — you — startled me so,” she said, in a weak 
voice. 

“ I was a brute. I ought to have thought. I 
might have known that coming up behind you sud- 
denly, in that way — I might have known that it 
would frighten you. But I was so surprised, so 
glad, to see you, I never thought of anything ex- 
cept to overtake you. But there — there,” — sooth- 
ingly, — “ don’t feel badly any more. Why, you 
are trembling from head to foot. Oh, and it was 
I — it was I who made you.” 

“ I suppose I am very silly. I ought to have 
known your voice. But it was so sudden,” she 
explained ; and at the recollection a new tremor 
swept over her, and her grasp upon his arm was 
tightened. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. i55 

“ But you are still trembling,” he protested. 
“ You — you are not afraid of me any more ? ” 

She looked up at him again, with great wonder- 
ing, reproachful eyes. “ Afraid oiyou ! ” she cried. 
And in the intonation of those three words he read 
all that he longed to know. “ Afraid of you ! ” 
Such scorn of the idea, such astonishment that he 
could have entertained it, such complete, unques- 
tioning trustfulness, as the tone indicated, could 
have been inspired by no other sentiment than the 
love he wished for. 

The violent beating of his heart, the whirl of his 
senses, made it impossible for him to speak. They 
were standing in the open street : it would not do 
for him to obey his impulse and fold her in his 
arms. He covered her hand with his, and pressed 
it, while he strove to master his agitation. 

“ Why,” she said softly, “ you — it is you who 
are trembling now.” 

“ Yes. ... I can’t help it. ... I love you so, 
Denise.” 

He felt her fingers close upon his arm. 

Denise — ” 

“Yes?” 

“ Do — do you — care anything — for me ? ” 

Silence. 

“ Denise — won’t you — tell me ? ” 


156 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“ Oh, how — oh, why do you make me say it ? 
You must know I do.” 

Presently, after some further speech between 
them, which, though to themselves of vital interest 
and importance, would most likely pall upon the 
reader, — so obvious, so sentimental, so tautological, 
it was, — presently he vouchsafed the information 
that he had loved her from the very beginning of 
their acquaintance ; that he had become enam- 
oured of her at first sight. 

Why, then, she wondered, had he waited so 
long about telling her so ? 

He explained that the fear of rejection had tied 
his tongue. 

And if — if it hadn’t been for this accidental 
encounter in the street, he would have gone away 
from Paris, back to New York — he would have 
left her in that way, without letting her know at 
all ? Oh ! 

No, no, Denise. I was going to call upon you 
this evening, and ask the doctor to leave us alone 
together ; and then — and then — ! ” 

More sentiment ; more tautology. 

“ Oh, but — oh, to think — to think that you have 
got to go — so soon — to — to-morrow night — and 
be — be gone all winter J ” Her voice broke into 
a sob. 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 15 7 

“ There, there, my — ” A perfect flood of senti- 
ment and tautology. 

At the door of her house they parted, he, prom- 
ising to return after dinner and spend the evening. 

Climbing up the staircase of the Hotel de TUni- 
vers, toward his own room, he heard the voice of 
his landlady calling after him : “Monsieur ! Mon- 
sieur Ormizon ! “ 

“ Yes ?” he queried, halting. 

“ Des lettres — des lettres pour vous, monsieur.” 

The landlady ran up to meet him, and put a 
large batch of American letters into his hand. 

One of these letters was addressed to him in the 
penmanship of his mother ! 


XI. 

At sight of his mother's handwriting, all at once 
the great joy in Stephen Ormizon’s heart went out ; 
expired in a sudden spasm, like a flame upon which 
cold water had been poured. It was supplanted by 
dread and foreboding. His hands became stone- 
cold, and gave off a scant clammy, moisture. He 
could feel a small spot of fire begin to burn in 
either cheek. He could count the pulsations of 
the arteries in his temples. A lump gathered in 


158 A LATIN-QUARl'EK COURTSHIP. 

his throat. In his breast there was a heavy, chill- 
ing weight, like a ball of ice. 

He mounted with leaden footsteps the remaindei 
of the staircase, and entered his room carrying the 
letter. He had to struggle hard before he could 
muster the courage to open it. 

“ What are you afraid of ? ” he asked himself. 
“ Can words hurt you ? Likely enough she says 
exactly what you want her to. And even if she 
doesn’t ? what of it ? Aren’t you big enough to 
stand a scolding ? Come, come ! ” 

That was all very well, very right and sensible. 
Nevertheless, it was with a quaking heart that at 
last he tore off the envelope, and by the flickering 
light of his candle proceeded to read : 

“ New York, September 12, 1885. 

“ Dear Stephen, — Rather more than a fort- 
night ago I received a letter bearing the Paris 
postmark, and signed with your name, which, if it 
had not been written in your unmistakable hand, I 
could never have brought myself to believe came 
from a child of mine. That my son, my own flesh 
and blood, whom 1 endeavored conscientiously to 
train up in the way he should go, and to imbue him 
with the same high principles by which I have 
always guided my own life, — that he can be so 
steeped in selfishness, so utterly lost to all sense of 
honor and decency, so indifferent to his pledges and 
to his duty, so false, so callous, so unchristian, as the 


A LATIN^QUARTER COURTSHIP. I59 

writer of this letter proves himself to be, is almost 
incredible to me. I have always recognized with 
sorrow that you had many faults and weaknesses ; 
that you were dangerously fond of the pleasures of 
the world, and sadly lacking in strength and de- 
cision of character. But this I attributed to your 
youth. I had never suspected that you were a 
monster of ingratitude, a coward, a poltroon. 
With what a shock the revelation of your baseness 
comes to me, I leave you to imagine. I shudder 
when I think of the punishment that must some 
time overtake you ; for it is not within the bounds 
of Divine justice that such conduct should go for- 
ever unpunished. I trust and pray that you may 
be led to a timely repentance. 

“ For a while I hesitated about showing your 
letter to Fanny. I was ashamed to let her, or in- 
deed any one else, see to what depths my own son 
could stoop ; and I hated also to destroy her illu- 
sions concerning you, and her respect and affection 
for you. But eventually I concluded that I really 
ought to do so, that she was entitled to know 
everything that related to her betrothed husband. 
So, having tried to prepare her for its contents, I 
gave her your letter to read. She took it and read 
it ; and then, much to my surprise, she did not 
manifest any surprise at all. She confessed to me 
than she had always been afraid you were very 
worldly and depraved, and capable, if not guilty, 
of almost any wickedness ; and that this letter 
simply confirmed her fears. Just think of that ! 


i6o A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

She said she had concealed her opinion from me 
through consideration for my feelings and reluct- 
ance to occasion me such anguish as she knew I 
must suffer now. Those were her exact words. 
Imagine my mortification at hearing my child 
spoken of in such terms by that angel, and being 
unable to defend him ! She went on to say that, 
so far as she personally was concerned, she freely 
forgave both your behavior toward her and the 
insulting expressions you made use of about her, 
but that she never would or could forgive your 
outrageous conduct toward your mother. It would 
be her earnest prayer that your proud heart might 
be humbled and chastened, and your eyes opened 
to the folly and sinfulness of your ways. She 
pointed out that the saddest aspect of your letter 
was its hypocrisy — your endeavor to disguise your 
selfishness and faithlessness under the cloak of 
virtue. You actually have the presumption to 
preach a sermon to your mother. All your talk 
about right and duty and religion would make me 
smile, if it were less impious and blasphemous. 

“ I have waited till now to answer your letter, so 
that my grief and my indignation might abate suf- 
ficiently for me to write calmly and without heat. 
Now, after much thought, and after having taken 
the advice of Fanny, and of the Rev. Mr. Wilcox 
(who, though a young man, is as wise as he is 
good), our new pastor, this is what I have to 
say : 

“ Of course, being over the age of twenty-one 


A LA riN-Q UARTER CO UR TSHIP. 1 6 1 

years, you are a free agent, and are at liberty to do 
in every respect whatever pleases you, without con- 
sulting your mother. You are at liberty to com- 
mit the worst crimes, and to practice the lowest 
vices ; and I have no power to restrain you. So, 
of course, you are at liberty to break the solemn 
promises you made to me, and to ignore your duty 
toward Fanny, and to marry this Frenchwoman 
with whom you seem to have become so infatuated ; 
and I can do nothing to prevent you. But if you 
see fit to take this course, I may tell you frankly, 
once for all, — and you know that, unlike my son, I 
am not a person to break my word, — I may tell 
you once for all that so long as I live I will never 
consent to see you, or to speak to you, or to have 
anything to do with you, again. If you can stoop 
to such disgraceful conduct, I shall nevermore ac- 
knowledge you as a child of mine. You had bet- 
ter understand this clearly. To employ your own 
language, you would only be uselessly deceiving 
yourself to doubt it. Unless, immediately upon 
the receipt of this letter, you come home, and crave 
Fanny’s and my forgiveness upon your bended 
knees, and at once make her your wife, you need 
never hope to be recognized as my son again. 
Therefore it is for you to choose between your 
Frenchwoman and your mother. I will not toler- 
ate any dilly-dallying, any discussion. I have 
spoken my last word ; and you know me well 
enough to be aware that I always mean exactly 
what I say. 


1 62 A LATIN-QUARTEJ? COURTSHIP. 

“ Now, furthermore. You will remember that 
in his will your father left me all his property ab- 
solutely, in fee simple. Of course it was his inten- 
tion, and until now it has been mine as well, that 
upon my death that property should pass on to 
you. But your father made no such condition in 
his will, and I am informed by my lawyer that I 
have full power to dispose of every penny precisely 
as I desire. Well, then, if you decide to marry 
your Frenchwoman, I will, besides immediately 
cutting off your allowance, cause my will to be 
altered in such a way that upon my death you will 
not receive a single dollar, but every cent will go 
to my beloved niece, Fanny Clark. I am sure, if 
your father were alive, he would approve of this 
course. You may calculate from this how much 
money you and your French wife will have to live 
on. Foolishly, little foreseeing the sort of treat- 
ment I was to receive at your hands, I made you a 
present, when you came of age, of the sum of ten 
thousand dollars in government bonds. My law- 
yer informs me that I can not compel you to return 
that sum. If you were a man of honor, you would 
return it without being compelled. But by marry- 
ing your Mademoiselle you will prove that you are 
in no sense a man of honor ; and so I shall not 
expect that restitution from you. Well, ten thou- 
sand dollars in government bonds will yield you an 
annual income of about four hundred dollars. I 
should like to know how you and your wife will 
manage to get along on that ; you, who are accus- 


A LATm-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 163 

tomed to every luxury, and who for the past five 
years have never spent less than twenty-five hun- 
dred dollars a year. How much do you suppose 
you would be able to earn } Not much by your 
literature, I suspect. You have no profession. 
And with neither a profession nor a large capital, 
what could you do ? Well, you might obtain a 
clerkship at ten dollars a week, or you might get a 
position as conductor on a horse-car, or something 
like that. Imagine the pride and the pleasure 
your mother would take in seeing her son engaged 
in such a dignified and distinguished occupation ! 

“ Now, that is all I have to say. If 5'ou come 
home and confess your repentance, and agree to 
marry Fanny right away, we will forgive you every- 
thing. We will ascribe your past conduct to the 
fascination which that Frenchwoman exerted over 
you. We will forgive and forget it. But if you 
persist in your own vicious desires, you know from 
the above what to expect. 

“ Your mother, 

“ Eunice C. Ormizon.” 

“ P. S. — Oh, Stephen, Stephen, don’t break your 
old mother’s heart. Come home to me, my dear- 
est son, and make me happy by marrying Fanny. 
Remember, you promised me you would. Don’t 
you consider a promise sacred ? Come home ; 
and we will never refer to this unfortunate affair 
again. Fanny is such a lovely angelic girl — how 
can you think of anybody else ? She will welcome 
you with open arms, and give you full pardon. 


1 64 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

Telegraph me that you will do as I wish. I am so 
unhappy, thinking that this one deepest wish of 
my heart, which I have cherished for so many 
years, is to be disappointed. Telegraph me, and 
then sail, as you intended, on the 26th. You 
should arrive not later than the 5th or 6th of Oc- 
tober. Then we can have the wedding at once — 
say, on the 17th, which is Fanny’s birthday. — 
Recollect, if you disobey me in this matter, I shall 
stick to every word that I have written above. 

“ E. C. O.” 

Abuse, threats, entreaties ! 

Stephen Ormizon read this letter through, 
standing up. Then he allowed it to drop from his 
grasp and flutter to the floor. “ Just what I might 
have expected ! ” he groaned, through clinched 
teeth, and, sinking upon a chair, covered his face 
with his hands, sore, angry, sick at heart. How 
insulting it was ! How unjust, how unreasonable ! 
How hard and — yes, and vulgar ! Just what he 
might have expected, he had said ; and yet he had 
not expected anything of the kind. The coarse 
vituperation of it surprised him as much as it hurt 
him. He was a coward, a poltroon, a monster of 
ingratitude, etc., etc. True, it had always been 
this way. In every difference that he had ever 
had with his mother, she had exhibited a masterly 
aptitude for calling names ; and he had heard a 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 165 

good many times before that he was this, that, and 
the other dreadful thing. Yet now, notwithstand- 
ing, he was completely staggered and taken aback, 
as by a blow in the face. If he had been lashed 
with a whip, he could not have suffered a keener 
or more furious sense of outrage. His set jaws, 
his scowling brows, his rigid limbs, his quivering 
nostrils, his swift breathing, told more plainly than 
his tongue could have done, of how that letter 
had made him smart. 

He sat still for a while, grinding his teeth 
together with such force it was a wonder he did 
not break them ; drumming with the sole of his 
boot upon the floor ; overwhelmed by his pain and 
his indignation. Now and then his feelings would 
seek to vent themselves, and find relief, in a good 
strong Saxon oath, muttered half aloud. At length 
he jumped up and began pacing back and forth 
through his room. 

What should he do about it ? What action had 
he best take ? 

His first thought was the simplest, the most ob- 
vious one. Do about it ? Why, marry Denise. 
Marry her just as soon as circumstances would 
allow — immediately — to-morrow, if that were pos- 
sible. Marry her ; and then let his mother do her 
worst. Let her disown him, cut off his allowance. 


1 66 A LA TIN-QUARTER CO^URTSHIP. 

bequeath every shilling of his property to Fanny 
— what she would. He could stand it, if she 
could, he guessed. He would have Denise ! 
And so long as he had her, he could snap his fin- 
gers at the universe. About the wherewithal, he 
need not be disturbed. He had enough. Ten 
thousand dollars in government bonds — that cer- 
tainly would keep him until he had established 
himself as an author and was earning a regular 
and ample income with his pen, — which he did 
not doubt his ultimate ability to do. Return the 
money ? Return the ten thousand dollars in gov- 
ernment bonds? Faugh ! Wasn’t his mother vir- 
tually robbing him of his own already, by taking 
advantage of an oversight in the wording of his 
father’s will, a mere lawyer’s quibble, and giving 
the fortune which his father had earned, and 
which had been intended for his enjoyment, to her 
niece Fanny — whom, by the by, his father had 
always cordially disliked ? Why, it — it was 
enough to make his father turn in his grave. In 
the white heat of his anger, he even looked so far 
ahead as his mother’s demise, and determined to 
contest her will, and to defeat the sanctimonious 
young legatee, in spite of all. Such injustice ! 
Such downright thievery ! It wasn’t the money 
that he cared about. It was the principle of the 


A LATIN-QUAR'l'ER COURTSHIP. 167 

thing. How he would enjoy seeing Fanny baffled 
and defeated ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! He laughed wild- 
ly at the idea. Yes, he would throw up the pas- 
sage he had engaged aboard La TourainCy stay 
where he was, and marry Denise at the earliest 
feasible date. He would go and see the United 
States Consul to-morrow morning, to arrange 
about it. 

That there remained, in spite of all, a question 
of respect and duty toward his mother, did not 
once enter his head. He had no doubt that his 
mother would keep her word and make good 
every threat that she had uttered. But, in his 
great passion and exasperation, this seemed a very 
trifling and unimportant matter. 

By and by, however, one aspect of the problem 
occurred to him, which he had not thought of 
before, and which, he could not deny, certainly 
did merit some consideration. Denise — what 
would Denise say, what would she do, if she were 
aware of his mother’s opposition ? Would she be 
willing to become his wife, in the face of it ? 

This query struck terror to his soul ; for, in 
spite of his desire to the contrary, he could not 
but feel confident that the right answer was No. 
Denise would never consent wittingly to step be- 
tween a mother and her son. She would say, “ I 


1 68 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

love you, yes. But we must not marry. We have 
no right to purchase our happiness at the price of 
your mother’s sorrow. There is nothing for us to 
do but to wait until she will give us her permission.” 
Such an attitude, in his opinion, would be entirely 
unreasonable and indefensible ; a quixotism of 
the worst kind. But he could not override the 
conviction that it was exactly the attitude which 
Denise — which, for that matter, almost any fine- 
grained, sensitive woman — would, under the cir- 
cumstances, assume. Women, in affairs of this 
nature, are so unthinking, so hopelessly the creat- 
ures of their impulses and sentiments. 

“ Yes ! If I let her know, it will be all up with 
me. She’ll send me about my business.” 

Out of the slough of despond into which this 
conclusion cast him, he could discern but one 
means of egress : to keep the fact of his mother’s 
opposition a secret from his sweetheart until after 
their wedding ceremony had been performed. 

But instantly, of course, against the practice of 
any such deceit his manlier instincts rose in re- 
volt. 

To induce Denise to become his wife, without 
first apprising her of a state of things which, if 
she suspected it, would determine her to give him 
up, would be to obtain her under false pretenses, 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP'.^ 169 

by the employment of trick and device. It would 
be unfair and dishonorable in the extremest sense. 
Besides, inevitably, a day of reckoning would 
come. He could not expect to conceal it from 
her forever. After they were married, she would 
be sure, by its very nature, to find it out. And 
then — would she not hold him guilty of irrepara- 
ble and unpardonable wrong toward her, and visit 
him with her scorn and her displeasure ? Any- 
how, it was her right to know it. It was her right 
to possess full knowledge of every circumstance 
that bore in any degree upon this question of 
their marriage. He must not let the woman he 
loved undertake blindfold so grave an obligation. 
No ; there was but a single line of conduct open 
to him. He must lay a complete statement of the 
case before her ; and then he must bow to her 
decision. 

“ And that means that my doom is as good as 
sealed. Of course her decision will be against me.” 

And now — “ Heaven help me ! How shall I 
break it to her ! How shall I let her know ? She 
— she’ll be expecting me before a great while now. 
And have I — have I got to go around there and 
tell her this ? It will break her heart. She loves 
me. She said she loved me. And she is so 
happy. And now — oh, God, no, no ! Go around 


170 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 

there, and turn all her happiness into pain ? No, 
I can’t do it. I can’t do it. Why, it would be the 
same as if I were to go around there, and — and 
knock her down. You can’t expect me to do that. 
If this letter had only come a few hours earlier — 
before I spoke to her ! Then I should not have 
spoken. But now — after I have told her how I 
love her — after I have wrung from her a confes- 
sion of her love for me, and asked her to be my 
wife, and made her say yes — now — to have to go 
and tell her this — ! Oh, it’s too much ! Oh, 
Denise, my< little girl ! How can I do it ? 
How—” 

He was interrupted by a loud rapping at his door. 

For an instant — to such a pitch of nervous ex- 
citement had he wrought himself — this common- 
place and not unusual noise startled and almost 
terrified him. He came to an abrupt standstill, 
and caught his breath. Then, recovering his 
presence of mind, “ Entrez,” he called out. 

The door opened. 

Hello, Ormizon. It’s me — Palmer. Thought 
I’d come around to bid you good-by. You leave 
to-morrow, don’t you ? ” 

“ Oh, how do you do ? I’m glad to see you. 
Come in. Sit down.” 

“ Why — why, what’s the matter with you ? You 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 171 

look sort of flustered. Anything gone askew ? 
Maybe my visit is ill-timed. If I’m de trop, speak 
right up, and I’ll take myself off.” 

“ Oh, no, not at all ; on the contrary. You’re 
very welcome. It was very kind of you to come. 
I should have bfeen sorry to go away without shak- 
ing hands with you. Here ; take this chair ; do.” 

“ Thanks. Since you urge me, I will. But I 
say, old boy, you can’t fool me. Something’s up. 
That’s as clear as daylight. You look — you look 
as though you’d got a challenge to fight a duel. ' If 
you need a second. I’m your man. Come ; unbur- 
den your sorrowing soul. Tell me the story of 
your woes. Perhaps I can be of assistance to you. 
Pour thy griefs into my sympathetic ear.” Palmer 
put his hand up to his ear, after the manner of deaf 
people. 

Ormizon laughed. Then, gravely, “ By Jove, 
Palmer, I don’t know but I will,” he said. You’re a 
man of good common sense. You may be able to ad- 
vise me. I’m in the very devil of a fix. I — I’m the 
most miserable fellow on the surface of the earth.” 

“ Advise you ? Why, you’ve hit upon my very 
forte. In point of worldly wealth I’m as poor as 
Job’s turkey ; but in point of good advice I’m as 
rich as Croesus and as generous as Peter Cooper. 
Come ; out with it. What’s the row ? ” 


172 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

“ Well, Palmer, it’s this, ^ou know Mademoi- 
selle Denise — Mademoiselle Personette } ” 

“ I am honored with her acquaintance — yes. 
Well ? ” 

‘‘Well, I— I’m — as you’d say, I suppose — I’m 
head over ears in love with her.” 

“ Ah ? So ? The frank confession does you 
proud. But is that all ? For, to tell you the truth, 
that’s no news to me.” 

“ It isn’t ? You guessed it ? Well, I suppose 
it was pretty evident. But — no, that isn’t all. This 
afternoon I — I proposed to her — asked her to be 
my wife.” . 

“ Ah, I see. Popped the question, and got the 
mitten. Oh, well, you mustn’t let that discourage 
you. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” 

“ No. She accepted me.” 

“ What ! She did ! You lucky dog ! Well, I 
swan ! Well, really, I don’t see why that should 
make you feel so bad.” 

“ No ; but just hold on. After I left her, and 
came home, I found here, waiting for me, a letter 
from my mother, which said — which said that in 
case I married Mademoiselle Personette she — she’d 
stop my allowance, cut me out of her will, and — 
and never recognize me or have anything to do 
with me again.” 


A LATIN-QUAHTER COURTSHIP, 173 

“ Oh ! So that’s the racket. . . . Still — well — 
but — but if you’re really very much in love with 
her, I shouldn’t think you’d let that stop you.” 

“ I should say not. I’m not such a — such a sneak 
as that. No, indeed. So far as I’m concerned, 
that would have no more influence over me than 
the blowing of the breeze. But the point is — the 
question is — what will she — what will Denise say, 
when she finds it out ? When she finds out that 
my mother is opposed to our marrying, she — she 
won’t look at me — she’ll give me the right-about- 
face in no time. Don’t you see ? ” 

“ Whew ! By George ! there’s something in that. 
I guess you’re right. Yes, I guess you are. She — 
she’s got such a — such a fine sense of what’s proper 
and correct. Yes, sir, I guess you’re about right. 
But — but you speak about her finding it out. How 
is she going to find it out ? I don’t see.” 

“ Why, from me, of course. Of course I shall 
tell her.” 

“ You will ? You’ll tell her ? Why, what in 
thunder — what under the sun — do you want to tell 
her for ? ” 

Why, how can I help it ? It wouldn’t be hon- 
est or honorable for me to keep it from her. For 
me to go and get her to marry me, without tell- 
ing her, — why, it would be the same as deceiv- 


174 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

ing her and cheating her — the same as lying to 
her.” 

“ Ah, yes. I see. I see your point. Hum ; you 
have got yourself in a box, and no mistake. It’s 
too bad ; it really is. But look here, Ormizon ; do 
you want to know my candid opinion ? ” 

“ Yes, what is it ? ” 

Well, it’s this. If she cares about you enough 
to agree to be your wife — if she’s as much in love 
with you as that — by George, you might as well 
take her and kill her outright, as to go round there 
and tell her things that will make her have to give 
you up. It will break the little thing’s heart. It 
will, as sure as my name’s Hiram.” 

“ Good Lord, Palmer, don’t sit there and tell me 
that ! Don’t you suppose I know that well enough ? 
That — that’s just the — the horrible part of it. I’m 
between two fires.” 

“ Exactly. So you are — between the devil and 
the deep sea. You’ve got to make a choice of 
evils. You’ve got to choose between deceiving her 
and breaking her heart. And if you want my ad- 
vice, as you said you did, I tell you what. If I 
were in your place, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d de- 
ceive her. It would be what you call a pious 
fraud. The end would justify the means.” 

“No, I can’t — T can’t agree with you about that. 


A LATJN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


175 


Palmer. I couldn’t — I actually couldn’t — lie to 
her.” 

“ Who said anything about lying to her ? There’s 
no need that you should lie to her. I’m the last 
man in the world to advise anybody to lie.” 

“ Well, but I don’t see the difference. You said, 
deceive her. Well, that’s as bad as lying. That’s 
only another name for the same thing.” 

“ Well, I don’t know that I should even deceive 
her — exactly. This is what I’d do. I’d tell her 
frankly that I was on bad terms with my mother — 
that my mother and I had had a row — but I’d be 
blamed before I’d tell her why — before I’d let her 
know that she was the cause of it. Then I’d 
marry her — just as soon as I could scare up a 
parson.” 

“ Yes ; and then, after you were married, she’d 
find it out — she’d discover the trick you’d played 
her — and she’d — she’d despise you for it.” 

“ She’d be a little angry at first, I dare say. 
But she’d come round. You see, she’s a woman, 
and she loves you. Well, grant, then, that when 
she first found it out she’d be a little worked up : 
she’d recognize that you’d done it because you 
wanted to spare her unhappiness, and because you 
loved her so ; and, though she’d pout and scold 
for a while, in her heart she’d be glad all the time, 


176 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

and she’d forgive you. Whereas if you go around 
there and tell her, — good-by, Mrs. Ormizon. It’ll 
be all up with you ; and she’ll swim down to her 
grave in a flood of tears. Come, my young friend; 
brace up. Take my advice, and keep your own 
counsel.” 

“ By Jove, Palmer, I don’t know but you’re 
right. You — you really think she’d forgive me?” 

‘‘ I don’t think it. I know it. Forgive you ? 
Why, in the long run she’d love you all the better 
for it.” 

“ By — by the Lord, Palmer, you — you’re a — 
By Jove, old boy, give me your hand. By — my — 
well, there, I can’t — I can’t express it — but — oh ! 
you’ve lifted such a weight off my mind.” 

“ Ouch ! Look out ! ” cried Palmer. “ You’ll 
break my wrist, if you keep on wagging my 
flipper that way. There, there. Calmez-vous. 
And — Hello ; there’s some one knocking on 
your door.” 

“ Come in ! Entrez ! ” called Ormizon. 

“ Ah, bonsoir, monsieur. Here is a letter for 
you from Mademoiselle Gluck.” 

The new-comer was Zelie, the servant of the 
ladies of the Rue Soufflot. 

Ormizon took the letter which she held out to 
him, broke the seal, and read : 


A LATIiV-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


177 


Dear Mr. Ormizon: — Come over here the 
instant you receive this — without a second’s delay. 

“ Yours, I. B. G.” 

“ What — what’s the matter ? Is there anything 
the matter ? ” he demanded of Z61ie, in a scared, 
anxious voice. 

Je n’en sais rien, monsieur ; mais je crois que 
Mademoiselle Personette est malade." 

That was all the satisfaction he could get from 
Z^lie. She knew nothing, but she believed that 
Mademoiselle Personette was ill. Particulars of 
any kind, though he plied her with questions, she 
protested her inability to give. Dr. Gluck had 
called her from the kitchen, where she was busy 
preparing dinner, and had despatched her with 
this note, bidding her make haste. “ Voila tout 
ce que je peux vous dire, monsieur.” 

Panic-stricken, leaving Lancelot in possession - 
of his quarters, and without a word to him, he 
hurried to respond to the doctor’s summons. 


XII. 

He gave the bell-cord a tremendous tug. The 
bell clanged violently within. 

After what seemed to him an eon, though, in 
point of fact, it was not half a minute. Dr. Gluck 
opened the door. 


178 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


“For God’s sake, what has happened?” he 
cried. “ Has — is — is Denise — ” 

“Hush. Come in,” interrupted the doctor. 
“ Come with me.” 

She led the way to the salon. 

“ Sit down, now, and be calm,” she said. “You 
needn’t alarm yourself. But I thought I had bet- 
ter send for you. I thought I had better tell you 
all about it, and learn from you the exact state of 
the case.” 

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m very glad you did. 
But — but go on. What is it? Tell me, quick. 
Don’t keep me in suspense.” 

“ Sh-sh ! Now, you mustn’t get excited. She’s 
in her room now, lying on the sofa, very weak and 
exhausted, but not seriously ill. You see, she 
fainted. And I got terribly frightened, she took 
so long about coming to. But she’s perfectly her- 
self again now ; only, as I say, weak and undone. 
She’s wild to — well, never mind about that till I’ve 
told you the rest.” 

“ But how — what — what made her faint ? She — ” 

“ Yes, I’m going to tell you the whole story, if 
you’ll give me time, and control yourself, and not 
go off in a passion. . . . Well, to begin at the be- 
ginning, you see, when Denise came home this 
evening I saw right away that something had 


A LATm-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 


179 


happened, — from her excitement and nervousness 
and the way she acted, you know, and everything. 
And of course I was as curious as could be to find 
out what it was. And I asked her lots of ques- 
tions ; and at last— well, at last she told me all 
about it — how you had met her in the Rue de 
Vaugirard, and how you had frightened her, and 
then declared yourself to her — and all the rest. 
Really, I don’t think I ever saw anybody so happy 
and elated as she was. She was just in a perfect 
tremor of delight. Well — well, of course, then we 
talked and talked about it for ever so long ; and 
it was so interesting and so exciting, you under- 
stand, that I — I totally forgot to give her the let- 
ter. . . . There ! I guess I haven’t told you, have 
I ? But while she was out, a letter had been de- 
livered for her — a letter from America — which was 
quite strange, for I didn’t know that she had any 
correspondents over there. . . . Well, as I say, in 
the excitement of our talk, I entirely forgot it ; 
but all of a sudden I remembered it, and went and 
got it, and gave it to her. We were standing 
right here in the parlor, just about where you and 
I are now. Well, she took it ; and she wondered 
whom in the world it could be from, and she 
couldn’t possibly imagine, because, she said, she 
didn’t know a single soul in America who would 


i8o A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

be likely to write to her ; and at last she opened 
it, and began to read it. Well, she couldn’t have 
read more than two or three lines at the utmost, 
when, the first thing I knew, she gave a scream, 
and she turned as white as a sheet, and fell — and 
fell right down in a dead faint on the floor. And 
then—” 

“ Good Lord ! I — I’m sure / know whom the 
letter was from,” he gasped. 

“ Yes, I dare say you do. I dare say you can 
guess. Well, of course, when she fainted, she let 
it drop from her hand. And after I had attended 
to her, and done everything I could, I picked it 
up, and read it — which I felt at liberty to do. 
Well, it was enough to make her faint. It was 
indeed. And if it’s true — But I can’t believe it is. 
I can’t believe that you are such a villain. Here ; 
read it ; here it is.” 

In his mother’s handwriting, the envelope bore 
this superscription : “ M’lle Personette, care of 
Miss Isabel B. Gluck, Rue Soufflot, Paris, France.” 

“ Oh, what a fool I was ! ” he groaned. I sup- 
pose I must have mentioned your address when I 
wrote to her. My God ! I never thought she’d — I 
never dreamed she’d — Oh, this — this is awful ! ” 

“ I was wondering how she found it out,” said 
the doctor. “ I thought maybe she got it from the 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP . l8l 

Merriwethers. . . . But you’d better go on now 
and read it, don’t you think ? ” 

“Yes, I suppose I had.” 

The letter ran as follows : 

“New York, September 12, 1885. 

“ Mademoiselle Personette, — I beg leave to 
inform you by this that my son, Stephen Ormizon, 
whom, I have reason to believe, you have endeav- 
ored to infatuate, is already engaged to be mar- 
ried to his cousin, my niece, Miss Fanny Clark. 
Now, as 1 have no doubt that the chief attractions 
which you find in my son are his wealth and his 
social position, I shall be doing you a kindness 
when I take this opportunity to warn you that if he 
should see fit to break his engagement with Miss 
Clark, and to contract a marriage with you, I shall 
at once disown and disinherit him, which will de- 
prive him immediately both of his social standing 
and of all means of support, present and future ; 
also, that I shall never recognize or acknowledge 
you as his wife, nor him as my son, but shall regard 
you both as entire strangers to me, to the day of 
my death. By the same mail I post a letter to my 
son, forbidding him to marry you, and commanding 
him to come home instantly and fulfill his obliga- 
tions to Miss Clark. I write you this as a favor to 
you, in order that you may understand exactly what 
to expect in case you persist in your attempts to 
lead my son into a mesalliance. 

“ Respectfully, 

“Eunice C. Ormizon.” 


1 82 A LATIN-QUARl'ER COURTSHIP. 

With a cry of rage, Ormizon sprang to his feet, 
and began storming about the room. 

“ By God ! — I’ll never forgive my mother this. 
How brutal ! How outrageous ! As long as I live 
I’ll never forgive her for writing to Denise like 
this. No — not if she got down on her knees to 
her, and begged her pardon. I’d never forgive her 
for having insulted and outraged her like this. 
Oh, it — it’s incredible. I can’t believe it. I never 
would have believed her capable of anything as bad 
as this. It’s — oh — I — What — what did Denise 
say ? What — oh. Lord ! I — I could kill my mother 
for writing this. Oh, I suppose Denise — I suppose 
she’ll never look at me again, after this. Oh, what 
a — what a fool, what a wretch, what a miserable, 
miserable dog lam!” 

“Hush — hush — hush,” the doctor had been im- 
ploring him, following him around the room, and 
waving her hands deprecatingly. “You’ll disturb 
her. She’ll hear you, and be frightened. Do calm 
yourself. Sit down. Be still. I want to talk to 
you.” 

But to no purpose. He had not heeded her. 
Now, however, of his own accord, he came to a 
stand-still, and was silent. 

“ There ! Do sit down,” she pleaded. “ Now, 
don’t fly off ; but sit down, and be quiet, and tell 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 183 

me now, — you may as well tell me honestly, — is it 
true ? ” 

He dropped upon a chair. 

“True?” he repeated, with a dazed look. 
“True? What? Is what true ? ” 

“ Why, what your mother says. Is it true that 
you are engaged to be married to your cousin — to 
Fanny Clark?” 

“ Oh ! That ! No ; it’s a lie — it’s a damn— I 
beg your pardon, doctor. It’s a — well, that is, at 
least, it’s this way. You see, I was — yes, I suppose 
I was — engaged to her — after a fashion. That is, 
before I left New York, my mother, she — she made 
me promise — she extorted a promise from me — 
that I — that I would marry Fanny. And I pro- 
mised — like a — like the — like the miserable fool I 
was. But the very instant I first saw Denise — as 
soon as I realized how I loved her — two or three 
days after I first met her, by Jove! — why, it was 
on the morning after we had been to hear Monsieur 
Perrichon — I — I wrote a letter to my mother, and 
confessed that I was in love with Denise, and told 
her that I couldn’t and wouldn’t marry Fanny. I 
thought that — you see — I thought that was the 
fair and square thing to do. Well, that was as 
good as breaking whatever engagement there was 
— wasn’t it? That was the beginning of all this 


1 84 A LATIA^-QUAJiTER COURTSHIP. 

trouble. If I’d kept my mouth shut — if I’d kept 
my own counsel — Oh, well, it’s too late now. 
The mischief is done. . . . Oh, God, I never 
expected this — such treachery as this — from — from 
my own mother ! ” 

“ And you really are in love with Denise ? You 
don’t — you never cared anything for your cousin ? ” 

“Care for her? Care for Fanny? Care for 
that — Oh, you make me laugh. Why, I tell 
you, I — I hate her. I’ve always hated her — ever 
since I was a child — ever since she came to live 
with us. Hasn’t she always been — Oh, I de- 
spise her. I’d like — I’d be glad — to see her — ” 

“ There, there ; never mind about that. And 
Fanny — your cousin— does she care for you ?” 

“ Does Fanny care for me ! That’s good ! 
That’s capital, doctor ! The idea of Fanny caring 
for me ! The sanctimonious hypocrite ! The — 
the — Why, she thinks I’m the worst reprobate 
unhung. She thinks I’m not good enough to tie 
her shoe-strings. All she’s after is my mother’s 
money. She’ll get it now. I wish her joy of it.” 

“ Then, as a matter of fact, you are free ? You 
have broken the engagement you had with your 
cousin, and are at liberty to marry anybody you 
choose ? ” 

“ What’s the use of your asking me that ? Any- 


A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 185 

body I choose ! Do you imagine Denise would 
have me, after that letter? You don’t suppose 
she'd marry the son of the woman who wrote that 
letter ? Oh, how she must despise me ! She’ll 
never look at me again — after that letter from — 
from my own mother ! Oh, it’s too hard ! I could 
— I could — ” He shook his fist at the empty air, 
and sprang to his feet again. 

Hush ! She’ll hear you. Sit down. Come, 
sit down here beside me, where you were before. 
There ; now you must be quiet and rational. I’m 
going to tell you something now that will — that 
will surprise you, and — and make you very happy.” 

“ Well, go on. Tell it to me. Tell me anything 
you want to. But there’s nothing that can sur- 
prise me, nothing that can make me very happy, 
after this — after I’ve lost the only thing I care for 
in the world. Well, go on.” 

“Well, if it doesn’t make you happy, it will be a 
wonder, and you’ll be an ungrateful thing. It 
seems like a special providence ; it does indeed. 
Well, it’s this : Denise — Denise doesn’t know a 
thing about it.” 

“ Doesn’t know a — doesn’t know a thing about 
what ? What are you driving at ? I don’t under- 
stand.” 

“ Doesn’t know a thing about your engagement 


1 86 A LATIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 

to Miss Clark — about what your mother wrote in 
this letter.” 

^^What! . . . Why — you — you said — didn’t you 
say — she read it — and that — and that was what — 
made her faint away ? I — I give it up. I don’t 
see your point. What — what in . . .” 

“ Sh — sh ! Now, behave yourself. Now, I’m 
going to explain. Now, sit right there, and don’t 
you move or interrupt, or I shan’t say a word. 
Now, listen. . . . Well, this is all there is to it. 
When Denise came to — when she finally opened 
her eyes, and recovered her senses — she was all 
dazed and bewildered, and she didn’t remember a 
single thing of what had happened — not a thing 
about the letter. You see, she couldn’t remember, 
because it had all been so quick and sudden. As 
I should say, speaking technically, the last impres- 
sions received by her brain before she fainted had 
simply been obliterated, wiped out, by the shock. 
Do you understand? . . ..Well, of course, when 
she came to, she was awfully curious to know what 
had happened to make her faint, and she must have 
asked a hundred questions. But I wasn’t going to 
tell her the real truth, until I had seen you, and 
spoken to you, and found out whether it was so — 
what your mother wrote. Sol just said that she 
had been very tired and weak, and, then, the ex- 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 187 

citement and the happiness and everything had 
been too much for her, and the strain had caused 
a fainting-fit. Well, of course that was a fib. But 
I thought, under the circumstances, that it was all 
right. And she — she believed it, and was per- 
fectly satisfied. There ! ” 

“ Oh, doctor, you — you’re — Oh, what can I say 
to tell you how good you are, how grateful you 
have made me ? Oh, this — this — it’s — it’s too good 
to be true ! Oh, my God ! ” he cried ; and in a 
twinkling he had torn his mother’s letter into a 
hundred pieces. 

“ Well, now,” went on the doctor, as I was 
going to tell you, she’s wild, perfectly wild, to see 
you ; and now I’ll go and tell her that you are 
here. But first I want to warn you. You must 
be guarded. You must look out for your tongue, 
and not let her suspect a thing about all this. 
Otherwise — ” 

*‘You needn’t be afraid, doctor. I guess you 
may trust me for that.” 

The doctor left the room. 

Oh, with what a trembling, throbbing, thrilling 
heart, a minute later, he4)eheld Denise crossing the 
threshold, coming toward him, nearer, nearer . . ! 

There ! She was in his arms, her head nestling 
upon his breast. 


1 88 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 


** I am so glad you have come,” she said, in a 
weak, fluttering voice. 

“ Yes, I have come, Denise, to tell you — to tell 
you that I am not going away, as I expected. I 
am not going to sail on Saturday. I have de- 
cided to postpone it. But when I do sail, you — 
you will come with me — will you, Denise ?” 

She made no answer. 

“ Why — why, Denise — my love ! You — why, 

you are crying. What is it, Denise ? ” 

** Oh, I — I am — crying — for — for happiness,” 
she sobbed. 

Knock — knock — knock — upon the door. 

“ Entrez ! ” called Denise. 

Z^lie entered, bearing a large pasteboard box. 

“ Quelque chose pour vous, mademoiselle,” she 
said. 

The box was full of great, beautiful red roses ; 
and on top of them lay a card ; and on the card 
was written, May our dear Mamselle be as happy 
as she is good and beautiful ! — Lancelot.” 


Ormizon’s novel, A Voice from the Wilderness ^ — 
but for which, as he often thinks with something 
like terror, he and Denise might never have found 
each other out, — was published in February, 1886. 

The critics treated it very kindly, remarking in 


A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP. 189 

it the crudity and the extravagance of youth, to be 
sure, but commending its freshness, its interest, 
and its simplicity. So the book had quite a run — 
was read and talked about ; and though it did not 
“ place its author at a bound in the front rank of 
living American writers of fiction,” as we hear of 
so many first books doing nowadays, it did raise 
him from the position of a nobody to that of a 
small somebody, — a somebody of the ninth or 
tenth magnitude, but still a somebody. 

And then, one fine morning, he received a letter — 
a letter from his mother — seeking a reconciliation ! 

Well, his mother and Fanny very magnanimously 
forgave him, and invited him and Denise to dinner, 
where they served up the fatted calf, and con- 
descended to patronize his wife, and to make her 
feel exceedingly self-conscious and ill at ease. 
After the coffee, while he was smoking his cigar- 
ette, his mother took him aside and offered to 
renew his allowance. I am sorry to say it was not 
without a certain wicked sense of triumph that he 
thanked her, and assured her that he stood in need 
of no such kindness, his actual income being amply 
sufficient to his wants. Happily, this was true. 
He and Denise were living very modestly in a 
small apartment up in Harlem, the rent of which 
did not quite consume the interest on his govern- 


190 A LA TIN-QUARTER COURTSHIP, 

ment bonds. For the rest, the little reputation 
that his book had brought him made an opening 
for him in the literary market, where he was gen- 
erally able to sell his wares at remunerative prices, 
always provided that they were up to the required 
standard of excellence. . . . Oh, I had nearly for- 
gotten, In addition to their other sources of rev- 
enue, they took a boarder. The boarder was a 
very pretty, plump little lady, not much older than 
thirty years. And though Ormizon was extremely 
attentive to her, and apparently very fond of her, 
Denise never manifested the least symptom of 
jealousy. The boarder’s name was Gluck — Isabel 
B. Gluck, M.D. 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN’S INHERI- 
TANCE. 

I. 

SCHLEMIEL. 

T he English language very likely possesses an 
equivalent for the JUdisch word Schlemiel ; 
but I have tried in vain to find it. Briefly, a Schle- 
miel is a person who never prospers, with whom 
everything goes wrong. Born under an evil star, 
or with a leaden spoon in his mouth, he is consti- 
tutionally unsuccessful. Misfortune has marked 
him for her own ; ill luck accompanies him 
through life. The witty Jewish author Leopold 
Kompert says that while other people seize op- 
portunities by the head, the Schlemiel lays hold 
of them by the foot, and allows them to wriggle 
and kick themselves loose. Put gold into the 
hands of your Schlemiel, adds Kompert, it turns 
to copper. Let him purchase a cask of wine ; 
when he opens the spigot, vinegar gushes forth. 
Yet, of all mortal men, the Schlemiel is usually the 
best-natured, the lightest-hearted. A perpetual 
191 


192 MR. SONNENSCHEIN ’ 5 IN HER I TA NCE. 

sunny smile illuminates his face. He seems to 
regard his sorry destiny as an excellent practical 
joke, at which, though it be at his own expense, 
he can laugh as well as another. Calamity is his 
native element. He is impervious to it. He 
minds it no more than a salamander minds fire, 
or a duck water. The Lord shapes the back to 
the burden. That same careless and irresponsi- 
ble temperament which is constantly bringing the 
Schlemiel to grief enables him to accept it with a 
shrug. Not but that, once in a while, you may 
meet a melancholy, even a crabbed and misan- 
thropic, Schlemiel ; but he will also be a highly 
exceptional Schlemiel. 

By his own admission, as well as by the judg- 
ment of his friends, Emmanuel Sonnenschein was 
a Schlemiel. “I ain’t no goot,” he used to say, 
with an hilarious twinkle in his eye. “ I ain’t got 
no sense. I’m a raikular Schlemiel.” He was a 
very old man, white, and bent, and wrinkled ; but, 
though he rather prided himself upon his age, and 
loved to prate about it, the exact figure of it he 
would never tell. He had been in this country a 
great many years ; and that again was a subject 
of pride with him ; but again, for some unim- 
aginable reason, he chose to make a secret of the 
date of his immigration. 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S JM/ER/7'ANCE. I93 

“ Old ! ” he would exclaim, lifting his hands 
toward the ceiling, and swinging his head from 
side to side in that peculiarly Jewish manner ; 
“ Old ! Gott in Himmel ! . . . . Vail, Saimmy,’' — 
he always called me Saimmy, never would Mister 
me, having made my acquaintance when I was in 
swaddling-clothes, — “vail, Saimmy, I don’t sup- 
pose you aifer knew nobody so old as me. Vail, 
if I told you my aich, you’d be aistonished ; 
you vould, honor bright. You’d be frightened, 
Saimmy ; it’s fearful, it simply is. Or else, I 
guess maybe you vouldn’t belief me ; you’d tink 
I vas trying to fool you. Vail, ainyhow, I von’t 
say anudder vord about it ; but I tell you fat you 
do. You can bet a hat dot I’m vun of de very 
oldest shentlemen de Lord aifer mait ; you can 
bet a hat on dot. . . . Oh, yais, I been in dis 
country an awful long time already, — longer as 
you yourself, dough you vas born here. I come 
ofer when I vas kervite a young feller, not more 
as terventy-fife or tirty ; and I’ve krown oop mit 
de country. Yais, I vent into de paittling busi- 
ness right avay aifter I lainded, and I’ve paittled 
on and oaff aifer since. My kracious, I’ve pait- 
tled pretty much aiferydings a party could ; hair- 
oil, and coattoh lace, and maitche.s, and insect- 
powter, and letter-paper, and pins and neetles, 


194 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

and chewelry, and toilet-soap, and suspainters, 
and toot-ache droaps, and marking-ink, and ague 
cure, and Yainkee notions ; but I ain't naifer mait 
no money ; I ain't naifer haid no luck ; I vas a 
raikular Schlemiel. . . . Vail, I vas a pretty old 
shentleman already fen I got mairried ; dot was 
in eighteen-hoonert-sixty. Den in sixty-vun my 
dowter Nettie vas born, and my vife she died. 
Vail, I guess maybe if my vife haid lived, I guess 
maybe I got rich. She vas vun of de very smart- 
est ladies in the United States. She haid sense 
enough for a whole faimily. But I didn't naifer 
haif no kind of luck ; and fen Nettie was born, my 
vife she died. I vas a raikular Schlemiel, dere’s 
no two vays about it. Vail, it vas shust exaictly 
tree veeks aiftervards, fen Nettie vas shust exaictly 
tree veeks old, vun day I vas cairrying her oop and 
down de room, to stoap her crying, — fen I let her 
droap on de floor, and her spine got inchured, and 
she's been a cripple aifer since. I couldn't help 
it, Saimmy ; I couldn't, honor bright. I felt aw- 
ful about it. Mein Gott^ I cut my troat sooner 
as done it ! But I couldn't help it, no more 
as I could help de color of my hair. I vas a 
Schlemiel. . . . Vail, Saimmy, you vas born in 
dot same year, — eighteen-sixty-vun, — vasn't-you? 
Yais, you and Nettie vas shust about de same 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S IMHERITANCE. 195 

aicb. But, lieber Herry fat a difference ! You — 
rich, hainsome, healty ! Nettie — poor, crippled, 
bait-ritten all her life ! And it vasn’t your fault 
dot you got dem advaintaches, no more as it vas 
her fault dot she ain’t got ’em. Vail, dis is a 
funny vorld ; but the Lord is goot ; and I sup- 
pose he’s got some reason for it. . . . My kra- 
cious, Saimmy, don’t I remaimber de day you vas 
born, and how glaid your popper feel dot you 
vasn’t a girl ! He vas simply delighted, Saimmy, 
he simply vas. Fen I look at you now, so tall 
and hainsome, and mit dot graind mustache and 
aiferydings, — vail, honor bright, I couldn’t hartly 
belief it. Vail, dis is a vonderful vorld ; it is, and 
no mistake. Vail, Saimmy, how’s your mommer ? ” 


II. 

schlemiel’s expectations. 

He lived with his crippled daughter Nettie up 
several flights of dark and rickety stairs, in a tene- 
ment-house overlooking Tompkins Square. Net- 
tie passed her life between her bed and her 
easy-chair. Mr. Sonnenschein did the house- 
work, — cooked the meals and washed the dishes, 
made the beds and kept the quarters clean. Net- 


196 MR. SONNENSCHEIN*S INHERITANCE. 

tie’s fingers were the only members of her dis- 
abled body that remained fit for service. These 
she busied from morning till night each day, 
crocheting tidies and pillow-shams and such like 
articles, — marvelous in their expert workmanship 
and in their unexampled ugliness, — which her 
father would “ paittle ” from door to door through 
the town, thus eking out a meagre livelihood. At 
our house he turned up as often as three or four 
times a year, bringing specimens of Nettie’s handi- 
craft in abundance sufficient to last a generation. 
We always bought them at his own appraisement ; 
but what my mother did with them I cannot say. 
This much is certain, she never allowed them to 
appear about the house. Perhaps she presented 
them en bloc to the next peddler who came along ; 
perhaps she had them used as kindlings for the 
fires. Poor Nettie ! that she should have wasted 
so much skill and so much labor upon such useless 
and unbeautiful creations ! 

Mr. Sonnenschein commonly arrived just as we 
had finished dinner, while we were getting into 
sympathy with our newly lighted cigars. We 
would install him at the table, — for in respect of 
that virtue which ranks second only to godliness he 
was unimpeachable, — fill his plate and his wineglass, 
and wait expectantly for the good cheer to loosen 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN ’ S INHERITANCE. 1 9 7 

his tongue. By and by, face fairly radiant of 
benevolence, he would lean back in his chair, 
heave a mighty sigh of satisfaction, wipe the tears 
of enjoyment from his eyes (with his napkin), and 
the unruly member would begin to wag. I always 
enjoyed listening to him, he was so simple-minded 
and so optimistic. 

“Vail, now, dis is a funny vorld, Saimmy ; it is, 
and no mistake. Yais, it’s an awful funny vorld, 
dere ain’t no use in talking. Vail, now look at 
here. I vas a Schlemiel, — hey ? Dere ain’t no 
kervestion about dot, — I vas a Schlemiel. Vail, 
now look at here. Maybe you vouldn’t belief me, 
— you might tink I vas trying to fool you, — but, 
honor bright, I got a brudder ofer in Chairmany 
who’s vun of de very luckiest shentlemen dot vas 
aifer born. Now, ain't dot funny ? . . . . His 
name is Shakie, and me and him vas tervins. 
Vail, I suppose dere vasn’t goot luck enough to 
go around beterveen us ; so Shakie he got it all, 
and I didn’t get ainy. All de same, I leaf it to 
you if it ain’t awful funny .... Vail, Shakie, he 
vas so fearful lucky, he vent into de chewelry 
business, and he got rich. Vail, I don’t know 
shust exaictly how rich he vas ; I ain’t naifer 
aisked him. But I don’t belief he’s vort less as 
fifty or a hoonert tousand tollars. Vail, of course. 


198 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

he might not be vort more as terventy-fife or 
tirty tousand. But he’s an awful rich shentleman 
ainyhow ; you can bet a hat on dot. Vail, Shakie 
he ain’t naifer got mairried, nor haid no children ; 
so fen he dies I get his money. Vail, he cain’t 
expect to live much longer, for he’s a fearful 
old man by dis time already, and it ain’t necheral 
dot he should live to get much older. Him and 
me vas tervins ; so he’s shust exactly as old as me ; 
and you ain’t got no /dea how old dot is. Vail, 
I’ll feel awful sorry fen Shakie dies ; yais. I’ll feel 
simply terrible ; but he cain’t expect to live much 
longer, — he’s so fearful old, — and I’ll be glaid to 
get dot money on account of Nettie. I don’t care 
two cents about money on my own account ; I 
don’t, honor bright. But poor little Nettie, she’s 
haid such a hart time of it all her life. I’ll be glaid 
fen I get money enough to let her live in comfort. 
.... Vail, Saimmy, my brudder Shakie he’s an 
awful ^^7^/-hearted shentleman, and he’s got a lot 
of faimily feeling about him ; and I suppose if I 
wrote him a letter to-morrer, and aisked him to 
make me a present of a tousand tollars, — vail, I 
suppose Shakie he’d saind it to me by returner- 
mail ; he’s an old bechelor, you know, and he’s got 
so much faimily feeling. But I ain’t naifer aisked 
him for vun single cent. No, sir ; I go to de 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 199 

poor-house sooner as aisk my brudder Shakie for 
a half a tollar. Dot’s becoase I’m so prout. You 
ain’t got no /dea how prout I am. Dere ain’t no 
use in talking, I shouldn’t vunder if I vas about de 
proutest shentleman de Lord aifer mait. And 
dot’s the reason I vouldn’t aisk no favors of my^ 
brudder Shakie. I vouldn’t let him know dot I 
ain’t so rich as himself, not for ten hoonert 
tousand tollars. I’m so fearful prout. Fy, 
Saimmy, my brudder Shakie he don’t dream dot I 
vas a Schlemiel. Vail, I guess maybe if he knew 
dot, — he’s got so much faimily feeling about him, — 
I guess maybe if Shakie knew dot, it vould break 
his heart.” 

“Well, Mr. Sonnenschein,” my mother would 
presently inquire, “ What has Nettie been doing 
lately? I hope you have brought some of her 
things with you to show us,” — thus proving her- 
self to be a consummate hypocrite, though from 
the kindest motives. 

His hands would fly up toward the ceiling ; his 
head would begin to sway from side to side ; 
and, “ Ach, Nettie ! ” he would cry in response. 
“ Nettie ! She’s a born vunder ! Industrious 
ain't no vord for it. She's de graindest vorker in 
de United States, she simply is. York, vork, 
vork, from de time she vakes oop in de morning 


200 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

till she goes to sleep again at night ! I naifer 
seen nodings like it in all my life before. It’s 
fearful. And such a tailent ! I don’t know fere 
she gets it. Vail, I guess maybe she gets it from 
her mommer. Yais, my vife vas vun of de very 
smartest ladies de Lord aifer mait ; and I guess 
maybe dot’s how my dowter Nettie gets her 
tailent. Vail, she’s been vorking a new paittern 
lately, fich she mait oop out of her own hait. 
It’s de most maiknificent ting she aifer done ; it’s 
elegant ; it’s immense. I got it in tidies and 
piller-shaims and table-maits and bait-kervilts. 
You’ll fall daid in loaf mit it ; I bet a hat on dot. 
Hold on.” 

Therewith he would open his pack, and display 
treasures, going into raptures of enthusiasm over 
them. “ Ain’t dey splendid ? Ain’t dey serveet ? 
Ain’t my dowter got a chenu-wine tailent ? ” etc., 
etc. He was generosity incarnate, was Mr. 
Sonnenschein ; and after we had satisfied our con- 
sciences by the purchase of tidies enough to fit 
out a colony, he would throw in two or three ex- 
tra ones, as he explained, “ for loaf.” Our pro- 
testations to the effect that he musn’t rob himself 
he would quickly silence, crying, “ Don’t mention 
it. Don’t say anudder vord about it. Dere ain’t 
nodings stinchy about me. Good maisure, small 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 20i 


proafits, kervick sales, — dot’s my motter. Take 
’em and vailcome. You say annudder vord about 
it, I trow in some more.” That threat was 
effectual. We took them. 


III. 

schlemiel’s prudence. 

Yes, his habit was to drop in upon us not 
seldomer than three or four times a year ; but a 
period of quite six months had elapsed, and he 
had given us no sign of life, and we were beginning 
to wonder what had become of him, — when, one 
blustering evening in November, at his usual hour, 
he entered our dining-room. 

From the instant we laid eyes upon him we 
knew that something extraordinary was in the 
wind. His accoutrement proclaimed as much, 
and so did the profound dejection that was 
painted upon his face. Instead of the motley 
assortment of other people’s superannuated gar- 
ments in which we were wont to see him clad, he 
wore a brand-new suit of broadcloth. A black 
cravat encircled his gnarled and ancient throat. 
In his hand he carried a glossy stove-pipe hat, 
with a crape band about it ; and under his arm, an 


202 MR, SONNENSCHEIN^S INHERITANCE, 


oblong thickish parcel, neatly done up in a paper, 
and tied with pink twine ; while the badge and 
instrument of his profession, his accustomed pack, 
was nowhere to be seen. His countenance, as I 
have said, bespoke a deep and consuming melan- 
choly. 

“ Why, Mr. Sonnenschein ! ” exclaimed my 
mother, starting up in alarm and advancing to 
meet him. “ What has happened ? What's the 
matter? Is — has — is Nettie — ” 

“ No," he interrupted, with a solemn gesture 
and in a sepulchral voice. “ No, it ain’t Nettie. 
No, tank de Lord, it ain’t so baid as dot. But it’s 
fearful all de same. It’s my brudder, — it’s my 
brudder Shakie." 

“ What ! ’’ we all cried in concert. “ He’s 
dead ? ’’ 

“ Yais," replied Mr. Sonnenschein, sinking into a 
chair, the picture of a man prostrated and undone 
by grief. “ Yais, he’s daid, my brudder Shakie’s 
daid." After a brief pause, in a sudden passion- 
ate outburst : “ Ach Gott, and ve vas tervins ! ’’ 

He bowed liis head, and for a little while his 
sorrow seemed to deprive him of the power of 
speech. The rest of us, too, kept silence. We 
were surprised to see him so painfully affected, 
but we were also very much impressed. 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 203 

Presently he raised his head, and slowly, in a 
shaken voice, went on : “ Yais, Shakie’s daid. 

It’s about two monts ago already I got de news. 
Vail, it pretty nearly broke my heart. Him and 
me vas tervins. ... Poor Shakie ! He vas an 
awful ^^?^/-hearted shentleman, and he hadn’t 
oughter been taken avay. Oh, vail, I suppose his 
time haid come. He vas fearful old ; and I guess 
maybe his time haid come. He couldn’t expect 
to live foraifer ; his time haid come ; and so he 
haid to die. Vail, dis is a hart vorld ; an out- 
racheous hart vorld, dere’s no two vays about it : 
but de Lord mait it, and I suppose he haid some 
reason it. Boruch dajir ernes / ” With that pious 
ejaculation, — Blessed be the Most High Judge, — 
he again bowed his head and held his peace. 

Some minutes passed in unbroken silence. 
Then, all at once, Mr. Sonnenschein drew a deep, 
loud sigh and straightened up. He gave his 
shoulders a prodigious shrug, as if to shake off 
his spiritual burden ; he passed his hands over his 
face as if to wipe away the shadows that darkened 
it. . . . Abruptly, with a sudden change of mien 
and manner, — eyes lighted by their familiar happy 
smile, — voice vibrant with its familiar jubilant 
ring, — “ But I got de money,” he cried. “ I got 
terventy-nine tousand, seven hoonert and sixty 


204 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

tollars ; and I’ve come ofer to haif you conkratu- 
late me. I only got it de day before yesterday, or 
I’d haif come around sooner. I hope you von’t 
mind, but I brought a couple bottles champagne 
along to celebrate mit. You folks, you been aw- 
ful friendly to me fen I vas poor already, and you 
vas raikular customers of mine ; so, now I vas 
rich, I tought I like to give you a little treat.” 

With that he undid the mysterious paper parcel 
which we had noticed at his entrance, and pro- 
duced surely enough a couple of bottles of cham- 
pagne. 

“ Fill oop your glaisses,” he urged. “ Fill 'em 
oop. Don’t be afraid of it. It’s chenu-wine. 
Vail, here goes ! Shalom alechem I Peace to you ! 
Drink hearty. Dere’s plenty more fere dot comes 
from.” 

The gayety of the company was speedily re- 
stored, and we drank to our old friend’s prosperity 
with right good will. 

“ Yais,” he said, smacking his lips upon a bum- 
per of his wine, “ I got de money de day before 
yesterday. I got a draift on de bainking estaib- 
lishment of Schaumberg, Knaus, Bauer & Co., 
down in Villiam Street. I ain’t haid it caished 
yet. ' Dere it is.” 

He had unbuttoned his coat and extracted from 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN ’ S INHERIT A NCE. 205 

its inside pocket a dilapidated leather wallet. Out 
of this he picked his draft and handed it to 
me for circulation around the table. The amount 
was, as he had said, $29,760. 

“Well, Mr. Sonnenschein,” my father asked, 
“ how do you propose to invest this money ? Can 
I be of any assistance to you in attending to its 
investment ? “ 

“Vail, no, I guess not, tank you,” he returned. 
“ It’s awful goof-nechered of you to make de 
oaffer ; but I guess not, tank you all de same. 
No ; to tell you de honest troot, I don’t make no 
investments of dot money ; I keep de caish. You 
see, I vas a Schlemiel. Vail, a Schlemiel is a 
party who’s bount to haif bait luck. Vail, if I put 
dot money in de baink, de first ting I know, de 
baink’ll bust. Or else, if I buy stoacks mit it, de 
stoack company vill fail ; or coverment boants, 
de coverment vill get into a var. If I put it in a 
mowgage on real estate, de title to dot real estate 
would be defaicted. Dere’s no two vays about it. 
I vas a Schlemiel. No, sir, I don’t make no in- 
vestments of dot money ; I be sure to lose it, dere 
ain’t no use in talking. But I tell you fat I do. 
I tought it all ofer in my own mind, and now I tell 
you fat I do. To-morrer morning I go down-town, 
and I call at de office of Schaumberg, Knaus, Bauer 


206 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

& Co., in Villiam Street, and I get dot draift 
caished, — hey? Vail, den I take dot caish baick 
oop-town again mit me ; and I go to my friend 
Mr. Solomon Levinson, who keeps a second-haint 
clodings estaiblishment in de basement of de house 
I live in ; and I aisk Mr. Levinson to put dot 
caish in his chenu-wine burglar-proof safe, and 
keep it for me, — you understand ? Vail, den fen 
me and Nettie needs some money, den I go to dot 
safe, and I take out a hoonert tollars, — you see de 
point ? Tirty tousand tollars ! My kracious, dot’s 
enough to laist me and Nettie longer as ve eider 
of us lives ; it is, honor bright. Ve ain’t extraiva- 
gant, and ve ain’t got no heirs to feel disappointed 
if ve don’t leaf no fortune. No, sir ; I vas a 
Schlemiel. I don’t make no investments of dot 
money ; I be sure to lose it. I keep de caish.” 

Unanimously and vehemently we protested 
against this course. We labored long and hard to 
convince him of its rash unwisdom. We assured 
him that of all the possible dispositions of his mo- 
ney which he could make, this was the wildest, the 
most hazardous ; and we invoked every argument 
by which a reasonable human being could be moved 
to vindicate our proposition. 

He heard us respectfully to the end, while a tole- 
rant smile played about his lips. Then he rejoined, 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 207 


Dot’s all right. Fat you folks say is shust 
exaictly so. You got an awful lot of sense about 
you, and you arkue simply splendid, — especially 
Saimmy. My kracious, if Saimmy vas to go to de 
laichislature, he’d make a chenu-wine sensation, he 
arkues so goot. He vas a necheral debater, dere’s 
no two vays about it. But I tell you how it is. 
Dere’s a proverb fich goes, ‘ Circumstainces alter 
cases.’ Vail, dot’s an aictual faict ; dey do, and 
no mistake. Vail, now I tell you how it is. You 
see, I vas a Schlemiel. Vail, a Schlemiel is a party 
who’s bount to haif bait luck. Vail, if I make ainy 
investments of dot money, I be sure to lose it ; I 
vould, honor bright. So, I don’t make no invest- 
ments of it. I don’t run no risks. I keep de 
caish.” 

So that, despite the splendor of our arguments, 
we might as well have addressed them to a stone 
post. Finally, in despair of reaching his intelli- 
gence, we appealed to his good nature, imploring 
him, if not for his own sake, if not for Nettie’s, then 
for ours, to intrust the practical management of 
his inheritance to more experienced heads. 

Again he heard us patiently to the end. Then 
he made answer, “ You folks, you’re awful friendly 
to take so much trouble on my account ; you 
simply are. And I’m fearful much obliged to you. 


2o8 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

and so vould Nettie be if she vas here. Birt I tell 
you how it is. You see, I vas a Schlemiel. Vail, 
if a party’s a Schlemiel, dere ain’t no use in talk- 
ing, he’s bount to haif bait luck. Vail, if I inyest 
dot money, I be aibsolutely sure to lose it, I vould, 
and no mistake. So, I stay on de safe side. I 
don’t run no risks. I keep de caish.” 

“ Look here, Mr. Sonnenschein,” my father said 
at last ; “ you buy government bonds with your 
money, and I’ll insure you against all possible loss, 
by making myself personally responsible in case of 
anything happening. If the government gets into 
a war, or repudiates its debt, or if through any other 
cause the bonds shrink in value. I’ll pay you from 
my own pocket the full amount of your losses. 
Come, that would render you perfectly secure.” 

“ My kracious ! ” cried Mr. Sonnenschein. 
“ Talk about gooEnecher ! Vail, dot beats de 
record. I naifer seen nobody so goot-ntcheved 
as you are in all my life before. It’s vunderful, 
it simply is. I guess maybe you vas about de 
nechered shentleman dot vas aifer born ; I do, 
honor bright. But I tell you how it is. You see, 
I vas a Schlemiel. Vail, if I invest dot money, I 
be sure to lose it vun vay or anudder, dere ain’t 
no kervestion about it. Vail, you don’t suppose 
I vant to make an old friend like you lose his 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 209 


money too ! No, sir ; not much ; I ain’t so mean 
as dot. But I tell you fat I do. I tought it all 
ofer, and now I tell you fat I mait oop my mind 
to do. I keep de caish. Mr. Levinson’s burglar- 
proof safe is goot enough for me.” 

And so he went away, leaving us in an exas- 
perated and anxious frame of mind. We tried hard 
to hope for the best ; but how could we help fear- 
ing the worst ? To invite disaster by keeping so 
large a sum of ready money lying exposed in 
another man’s safe, — who but a Schlemiel could be 
guilty of such unmitigated folly ? 


IV. 

schlemiel’s pen. 

It was rather more than a week later that the 
post brought me one morning a letter, written in a 
cramped foreign hand, of which the following is a 
true and perfect copy : 

“ DiER Sammy ! 

‘‘ ime Konfeint to de Haus bei a fieful Kolt an 
de het and Lonks and, i Kand go autt for fier i 
gett vurs But i leik, to sie You as i got a Fieful 
gut schoke to tell you and Den annyhau Ime 
lonsum and i leik to Sie you for Kumpny to schier 
Me up vel days ane ole vumin of de nehmer 


2 1 o MR. SONNENSCHEIN ’5 INHERITANCE. 

rebekah doz our Haus vork for Us and her and 
nettie is Die onelie piepul i sie Ole Day so i gett 
Kein der Lonsum and i leik to sie you to tell You 
dat Schoke vel ittul mehk you Laff to dei sammy 
it vil and no mistek vel if a parties a Schlemiel 
day ant no Yous in toking Hies gott to haf bat 
luck, vel kum sie Me sammy for i gess Mabie mei 
time is com i do on a Brite, ime a fieful ole Gen- 
tulmin you no and de Doktor sais I Gott a bat 
kase Braun Kietiz, Kom sie me enyhau de Doktor 
sed, it ant Kesching. give my Lof papa and 
mama your 

Gut Frent 

E. SONNENSCHEIN ! ’* 

I found this epistle lying in wait for me on the 
breakfast-table. After I had made what sense of 
it I could, I passed it over to my mother, saying, 

I’ll stop in and see him on my way down-town.” 

“ I’ll go with you,” my mother volunteered, some 
fifteen minutes later, after the sensation created by 
the exhibition to the rest of the family of Mr. Son- 
nenschein’s effort had subsided. “ Poor old man ! 
Perhaps there’s something I can do to make him 
comfortable.” 

So, together, my mother and I set out for 
Tompkins Square. 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN 'S INHERl TANCE. 2 1 1 


V. 

SCHLEMIEL’s “ SCHOKE.’* 

Our greeting over, and our inquiries concerning 
the exact state of his health satisfactorily answered 
(he had indeed a bad cold, but was not nearly so 
ill as we had feared to find him) : “ Vail, now, 
Saimmy,” began Mr. Sonnenschein, “ as I told you 
a great mainy times already, dis is a vunderful 
vorld. By and by, fen you get so old as me, you’ll 
say de same ting ; dough now, file you’re young, 
you might imachine dot I vas only fooling. My 
kracious, fen I tink about .how vunderful it really is 
— vail, Saimmy, I’m aictually aistonished — vail, 
honor bright, I cain’t hartly belief it. Vail, now 
look at here. I vas a Schlemiel, hey ? Vail, a 
Schlemiel is a party who’s bount to haif bait luck, 
ain’t he ? No matter fat he does, no maitter fat 
precowtions he takes, he cain’t help it ; he got to 
haif bait luck. Vail, now look at here. It’s shust 
exaictly about two veeks ago already I got dot 
draift from de <r^^j-hecutor of my brudder Shaikie 
ofer in Chairmany. Vail, I guess maybe I told 
you I vasn’t going to make no investments of dot 
money, becoase, as I vas a Schlemiel, I be sure to 
lose it. I guess maybe I told you I vas going to 


2 1 2 SONNE NSCHEIN ’ INHERIJ'ANCE. 

keep de caish, Yais, I tought it all ofer, and I 
mait oop my mind dot I better stay on de safe side 
and keep de caish. Vail, now look at here. De 
very next day aifter I seen you, I vent down town 
to de office of Schaumberg, Knaus, Bauer & Co., 
in Villiam Street, and I got dot draift caished. I 
got terventy-nine vun-tousand-tollar pills, vun fife- 
hoonert-tollar pill, two vun-hoonert-tollar pills, 
and de ott sixty tollars in fifes and tens. Vail, 
Saimmy, den I done all dot money oop, except dose 
ott sixty tollars, fich I kep in my poacket, I done 
it all oop mit paper in a poontle, and I vent to my 
friend Mr. Solomon Levinson, who keeps a second- 
haint clodings estaiblishment down-stairs in de 
basement ; and I aisked Mr. Levinson to put dot 
poontle inside his chenuwine burglar-proof safe and 
keep it for me ; and Mr. Levinson he done it. He 
put it inside on de toap shelf, file I stood dere and 
seen him. Vail, Saimmy, Mr. Levinson he’s got a 
lot of curiosity about him, fich is only necheral ; 
and, so, as I vas leafing, Mr. Levinson he aisked 
me if I haid and ^/-shections to informing him fat 
dot poontle contained. Vail, I tought to myself, 
‘ I guess maybe I better not let nobody know how 
much money dere is in dot poontle ’ ; so I said to 
Mr. Levinson, ‘ Fy, certainly, I ain’t got no op- 
shections. It contains old loaf-letters.’ Dot’s fat 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN *S INHERITANCE. 2 1 3 

I said to Mr. Levinson. Vail, dot was pretty goot 
for an oaff-hainder, vasn’t it, Saimmy ? Vail, now 
look at here. Vail, I suppose you'd tink dere 
vasn’t vun chaince in a hoonert tousand of ainy- 
dings haippening to dot money, now it vas loacked 
oop in Mr. Levinson’s burglar-proof safe, vouldn’t 
you, Saimmy ? Vail, now look at here. Now 
you’ll see shust exaictly how it is fen a party’s a 
Schlemiel. You’ll see fat a vunderful vorld dis is. 
Vail, de day Mr. Levinson put dot money inside 
his safe vas Friday. Vail, den it stainds to reason 
de next day vas Schabbas (Sabbath) ; don’t it, 
Saimmy ? Vail, maybe you vouldn’t belief me — 
you might tink I vas trying to fool you, — but, honor 
bright, — I hope to die de next minute if it ain’t a 
faict, — dot very same night, — Sotturday night, — 
aifter ve vas gone to bait, — vail, Saimmy, I bet you 
a brain-new fife tollar silk hat you cain’t guess fat 
haippened. You take de bet ? No ? You gif it 
oop ? Hey ? Vail, now look at here. Dot very 
same night, — Sotturday night, — vail, Mr. Levinson 
he haid a fire in his estaiblishment, and my money 
got burned oop, — aifery red cent of it got burned 
to cinters ! ” 

Of course we cried out in horror and consterna- 
tion. But we had no words in our vocabulary elo- 
quent enough to do justice to the catastrophe ; and 


2 1 4 MR. SONNENSCHEIN ’S INHERITANCE. 

we very soon relapsed into a dazed and helpless 
silence. Then Mr. Sonnenschein went placidly 
on : “Vail, it vas hart luck, outracheous hart luck, 
dot’s an aictual faict. It vas raikular Schlemiel’s 
luck, dere’s no two vays about it. But fat could 
you expect ? It vas bount to haippen. I vas bount 
to lose dot money vun vay or anudder, dere ain’t 
no use in talking. Vail, you’ve got to learn in dis 
vorld to take tings as dey come and part mit ’em 
as dey go ; dot’s all dere is about it. Vail, now 
look at here. Now I tell you de particulars. Bern’s 
de funniest part of de whole business.” 

The particulars were simple enough. Between 
eleven and twelve o’clock on Saturday night he and 
Nettie had been roused from their sleep by firemen 
breaking into their apartment and announcing that 
the house was afire. The firemen carried Nettie to 
the street, Mr. Sonnenschein following. The fire, 
it seemed, had started in Mr. Levinson’s “ estaib- 
lishment,” and before it had gained much headway 
the firemen succeeded in putting it out. The ten- 
ants were then allowed to return to their beds. 
“ Dot’s how I caught dis case brownchitis, setting 
still outside dere in de street, fich vas fearful cold, 
mitout no clodings on to speak of, file de firemen 
dey put dot fire out.” It never once entered Mr. 
Sonnenschein’s head to fear that his fortune was in 


SONJVENSCJ/EIN^S INHERITANCE. 215 


danger, for “ I tought of course it vas loacked oop 
in Mr. Levinson’s chenu-wine burglar and fire-proof 
safe.” But the next morning Mr. Levinson came 
to see him, and explained that, as his safe had been 
somewhat crowded with matter the day before, he 
had removed Mr. Sonncnschein's bundle of old 
letters and placed it in the cupboard of his writing- 
desk. “ And den, of course, as I was a Schlemiel, 
dot estaiblishmcnt haid to ketch fire, and dot writ- 
ing-desk, mit aiferydings inside of it, get burned 
oop. Raikular Schlemicl’s luck, ain’t it, Saimmy ? 
. . . Vail, aifter all, it don’t make much difference. 
Fen I got dot money I mait oop my mind dot I’d 
retire from business, and be a shentleman of leisure. 
Vail, now I simply got to go baick into business 
again ; dot’s all dere is about it.” 


VI. 

schlemiel’s friend. 

My mother and I parted company at Mr. Son- 
nenschein’s door, she to return home, I to pursue 
my downward journey to my office. As I walked 
along, however, an idea, a suspicion, began to wax 
strong in my mind ; dominated by which, I pres- 
ently changed my course, and, entering the head- 


2 1 6 MR. SONNENSCHEIN INHERITANCE. 


quarters of the fire department, in Mercer Street, 
asked to see the Fire Marshal, Mr. Sparks, a gen- 
tleman with whom I was fortunate enough to have 
some personal acquaintance. Two minutes later 
he and I were closeted together. 

“ I dare say you remember a fire that occurred 
last Saturday night, up on Tompkins Square, in the 
shop of a second-hand clothing-dealer, named Lev- 
inson ? ” I inquired. 

“ Yes,” the Fire Marshal answered. “ I remem- 
ber it.” 

“Well, would you mind telling me whether there 
was anything suspicious about it ? — whether there 
were any circumstances to indicate that it was of 
incendiary origin ? ” 

“ Whenever a fire occurs in premises occupied 
by a gentleman of Mr. Levinson’s race, class, and 
profession, I may say it is suspicious. Those low- 
class Polish Jews think no more of setting fire to a 
house, if they’ve anything to gain by it, than they 
do of lying. But in this particular case suspicion 
is disarmed by the fact that Levinson, strange to 
say, carried no insurance. So, you see, we have no 
evidence of motive. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you. On the day before the fire^ 
— that is, on Friday, — an old man named Sonnen- 
schein deposited a very large sum of money — 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN 'S INHERITANCE. 2 1 7 

thirty thousand dollars, indeed, in greenbacks — 
with this Levinson for safe-keeping. After the fire, 
Levinson claimed that Sonnenschein’s money had 
been burned up. Now it occurred to me that per- 
haps Levinson had quietly pocketed the thirty thou- 
sand dollars, and then kindled the fire to account 
for its disappearance. If this supposition is rea- 
sonable, the fact that he carried no insurance 
doesn’t signify.” 

•‘By Jupiter ! ” cried the Fire Marshal, thump- 
ing his desk. “ That’s the missing link. Tell me 
every detail of this transaction. I begin to see 
light.” 

I told him the whole story. 

“ Why, it’s as clear as day,” was his comment, 
when I had finished. “ We’ll have Levinson on 
his knees here before us within half an hour.” 
And Mr. Sparks left the room. 

When he came back, a minute or two later, he 
explained that he had sent a messenger to Mr. 
Levinson’s place of business with an invitation to 
that worthy to favor the Fire Marshal with his 
company at once. “ Now, you sit down behind 
this screen,” he said to me, “ where you can see 
without being seen. Levinson must fancy that 
he is alone with me. I think I can promise you 
some entertainment." 


2 1 8 MR. SONNENSCHEIN ’S INHERITANCE. 

In due time the door opened, and Mr. Levinson 
was ushered in : a short, thick-set individual, with 
bushy black hair and beard, sallow complexion, 
and low, squat, oily features. His small black 
eyes darted inquiringly from side to side ; his 
fingers, fat and stubby, toyed with the brim of his 
hat ; and about his mouth flickered a conciliatory 
smirk. These low-class Polish Jews, as the Fire 
Marshal had called them, all look pretty much 
alike ; there is an astonishing poverty of types 
among them : take the first old-clothes or glass- 
put-in man who comes along, and he’ll answer fair- 
ly well for Mr. Levinson. His age, I guessed, was 
in the neighborhood of forty-five. As for his 
person, it would have been base flattery to call it 
dirty. It was unspeakable. I could not help feel- 
ing that by its presence it soiled the atmosphere 
of the room ; and I breathed with a poor relish as 
long as Mr. Levinson and I remained within 
hearing distance of each other. 

“ Levinson,” began Mr. Sparks, in a tame and 
business-like tone of voice, “ you are under arrest 
for the crime of arson in the first degree. I’ve 
found out all about that little fire of yours ; I know 
just how, when, and why you started it. Setting 
fire to an occupied dwelling-house in the night 
time constitutes, as I say, arson in the first degree, 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN ’5 INHERITANCE. 2 1 9 

the penalty for which is imprisonment for life. 
You remember the case of Perlstein, Bernstein, 
and Cohen Davis, don’t you, Levinson ? Well, 
here you’ve gone and got yourself into the same 
box with them. In a few days now you’ll be 
keeping them company up in Sing Sing. Well, 
twenty-nine thousand seven hundred dollars is a 
comfortable sum of money, but hardly worth im- 
prisonment for life, I should think. And then, you 
did the job so clumsily. You gave yourself dead 
away, and assured your own conviction. I don’t 
think I ever saw a worse piece of work, Levinson. 
You ought to have waited a month or so at least. 
The money would have kept, and your risk of get- 
ting caught would have been infinitely diminished. 
Bnt it’s too late now, Levinson, and there’s no 
use repining. You were in a hurry, you were 
careless, and so — here you are. You’ve made your 
own bed, and now you’ve got to lie in it. I shall 
send you from here straight down to the Tombs. 
You’ll come up for trial on Monday morning ; 
and on Tuesday you’ll take the train for Sing 
Sing, to stay there the rest of your life. The offi- 
cer is waiting for you in the next room with his 
handcuffs. Before I turn you over to him, have 
you anything you wish to say ? ” 

“ Ach Gott, Fire Marshal ! ” cried Levinson, 


220 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

whose sallow skin (as I could see through a con- 
venient crack in the screen behind which I was in 
ambush) had turned several shades sallower, and 
whose frame was shaking as if with cold. ** For 
Gott’s sake, Fire Marshal, don’t be so hart mit 
me. Dot fire, I couldn’t help it, it vas an Occi- 
dent, so help me Gott, Ach, Fire Marshal, tink 
of my vife and children. Don't be so hart. Ach, 
Fire Marshal, for de love of Gott, don’t say Sing 
Sing.” 

“ You ought to have thought of your wife and 
children, Levinson. You ought to have thought 
of them before you started the fire. You didn’t 
give much thought to the other people’s wives and 
children, who were sleeping in that house, and 
who might have been burned to death, did you, 
Levinson ? It’s too late now. You know the 
law.” 

“ But, my Gott, Fire Marshal, it vas such a 
leetle fire, and all in my own place of business. 
You vouldn’t ponish a man for a leettle fire like 
dot, de same as if de whole house burned down. 
For Gott’s sake. Fire Marshal, dot vould be too 
hart.” 

“ It wasn’t your fault, Levinson, that the whole 
house didn’t burn down. It might have done so. 
As I said, lives might have been lost, in which 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 221 


case you’d have been hanged. No, there’s no 
hope for you. State Prison for life will be your 
sentence.” 

“ Ach, Fire Marshal, you’re a good-natured 
man. Ach, I vouldn’t belief you could be so hart. 
If anudder man told me you could be so hart, I 
vouldn’t belief him. Ach, for Gott’s sake. Fire 
Marshal, don’t say Sing Sing. Ach, for Gott’s 
sake, help me. I never done nodings of de kind 
before. Help me. Fire Marshal ; Gott vill revard 
you for it.” 

“ Well, Levinson, if you want me to help you, 
first of all tell me this : what have you done with 
the money ? ” 

As sudden as a flash, a look of blank incompre- 
hension shot over Levinson’s face. “ Money ? ” 
he repeated, in a puzzled key. “ Money ? What 
money ? ” 

“ Look here, Levinson,” cried the Marshal, 
sternly, “ I’ll have none of that. If you are not 
frank with me. I’ll turn you over to my officer at 
once. If you want me to help you, you must tell 
me the whole truth freely. Now, what have you 
done with the twenty-nine thousand dollars that 
old Sonnenschein left with you, to keep for 
him?” 

“ Ach, Fire Marshal, you’re de hartest man I 


2 22 MR, SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

ever seen. You’re fearful hart. What I done mit 
dot money? Good Gott, what should I do mit it? 
I kep it, Fire Marshal. I got it yet. I got it in 
my store.” 

“ Well, now, Levinson, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. 
You refund every penny of that money instantly, 
and I’ll do as much as I can to have them let you 
down easily.” 

“ Every penny ! Ach, Fire Marshal, for Gott’s 
sake, don’t talk like dot. Don’t say every penny. 
I’m a poor man. Fire Marshal ; I am, so help me 
Gott. You don’t want to ruin me. Fire Marshal. 
You can’t be so hart as dot. Say half. Fire Mar- 
shal. Say fifteen tousand dawllars, and I do it.” 

“ Look here, Levinson ; I told you I’d have no 
fooling. You’ll refund every penny of that 
money, or you’ll go to State Prison for life. And 
you’ve got to make your choice quickly, too. I’m 
tired of beating about the bush. Will you or will 
you not go with me now to your store, and put 
every dollar of that money into my hands ? I 
want an immediate answer.” 

“ Good Gott ! ” cried Levinson, fairly writhing 
in angufsh. Then, “ Well, Fire Marshal, come 
along.” 

A procession was formed, Mr. Levinson and the 
Marshal leading, a policeman and myself bringing 


MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 223 


up the rear. In this order we marched to Levin- 
son’s shop. 

Levinson handed a paper parcel to Mr. Sparks. 
We examined its contents. They were : twenty- 
nine one-thousand-dollar bills, one five-hundred- 
dollar bill, and two one-hundred- dollar bills, thus 
answering accurately to Mr. Sonnenschein’s de- 
scription. 

Now, officer,” said the Marshal, addressing the 
policeman, “ take this gentleman to the Tombs. 
Good-by, Levinson. I’ll see you later.” 

A few days afterward, by the Fire Marshal’s in- 
tercession, Levinson was allowed to enter a plea 
of guilty to a minor degree of arson ; and the 
court sentenced him to confinement at hard labor 
in the State Prison for a term of ten years. 


VII. 

schlemiel’s gratitude. 

Mr. Sparks and I climbed upstairs to Mr. Son- 
nenschein’s tenement. 

“Vail, my kracious, Saimmy, fat brings you 
baick again so soon ? ” was the old man’s greet- 
ing. 


224 MR. SON NENSCH KIN'S INHERITANCE. 

As briefly and as clearly as I could I explained 
what had happened since my former visit. 

Mein Goit! You don’t mean it!” he cried, 
when I had done. “ Go ’vay. You don’t really 
mean it 1 Mr. Levinson, he set fire to dot estaib- 
lishment, and you got baick de money? Vail, if I 
aifer ? Vail, dot beats de record ; it does, and no 
mistake. Talk about brains ! Fy, Saimmy, 
smartness ain’t no vord for it. You got vun of de 
graindest haits on your shoulders de Lord aifer 
mait. And Mr. Levinson, he aictually set fire to 
dot estaiblishment, so as to get my money! Vail, 
dot vas outracheous, dere ain’t no use in talking. 
Vail, Saimmy, I cain’t hardly belief it ; I cain’t, 
honor bright.” 

The .marshal was busy with pen and ink at a 
table hard by, drawing up an affidavit and a re- 
ceipt for Mr. Sonnenschein to sign and swear to. 
After the old man had laboriously traced his name 
and vouched for the truth of what was written 
above it, the Marshal handed him the bundle con- 
taining his inheritance, and, covered with thanks 
from both of us, went away. 

“Vail, now, Saimmy,” said Mr. Sonnenschein, 
“ now I tell you fat you do. You cairry dot 
poontle down-town mit you, and you go to your 
popper’s office, and you gif it to him, and you tell 


MR, SONNENSCHEIN ’ S INHERITA NCE. 225 

him to make all de investments of dot money fich 
he likes. Dere’s no two vays about it, Saimmy, I 
vas a raikular Schlemiel ; and I guess maybe de 
best ting I can do is to let your popper mainage 
dot money shust exaictly as if it vas his own. No 
maitter fat investments he makes of it, Saimmy, I 
tell you vun ting, I bet a hat dot vun vay or 
anudder dot money gets lost inside six monts. 
Vail, Saimmy, as I told you a great mainy times 
before already, dis is a fearful funny vorld ; and I 
guess maybe now, aifter dis fire and aiferydings, I 
guess maybe you’ll belief me.” 

My father made such investments of dot 
money ” as would yield Mr. Sonnenschein an 
annual income of fifteen hundred dollars, which 
the old gentleman, still hale and hearty, is enjoy- 
ing to this day. Though a Jew by birth and 
faith, he is as good a Christian as most of the pro- 
fessing ones ; for after he learned of Levinson’s 
imprisonment he insisted upon making a liberal 
provision for Mrs. Levinson and her children. 
Nor is ingratitude a vice that could justly be at- 
tributed to our Schlemiel. When my parents cele- 
brated the thirtieth anniversary of their wedding, 
a few months ago, they received by express a 
large and luminous worsted-work picture, enclosed 
by a massive gilt frame, which represented in the 


226 MR. SONNENSCHEIN'S INHERITANCE. 

primary colors the nuptial ceremonies of Jacob 
and Rachel. A card attached informed them that 
it came with compliments and best wishes from 
Mr. Sonnenschein and Nettie, and on the obverse 
of the card, in Mr. Sonnenschein’s chirography, 
we read, “ Nettie dun it Ole herself.” 

But his continued prosperity has undermined 
the old man’s philosophy and upset all his estab- 
lished views of life. He calls at my father’s office 
to receive his allowance on the first day of every 
month. “ Vail, ainydings haippened yet ? ” is the 
inquiry with which he invariably begins. And when 
my father replies that nothing has happened, and 
proceeds to count out his money, ‘^Vail, Gott in 
Himmely fat kind of a vorld is dis, ainyhow ! ” he 
cries. I gif it oop. I cain’t make haits or tails 
of it. Here I been a Schlemiel aifer since I vas 
born already, and now all of a sutten I change 
ofer, and I ain’t no Schlemiel no more, Vail, dot 
beats me, — it beats me all holler, and no mistake 
about it. But de Lord done it, and I guess maybe 
he’s got some reason for it. Blessed be de name 
of de Lord ! ” 


LILITH. 


TRAHAN, the deaf-mute sculptor, is famous 



^ now ; but at the time with which we are con- 
cerned he was still struggling in obscurity. He 
lived and had his studio in an abandoned stable, 
which stood by itself, midway between Ninth and 
Tenth avenues, on Ninety-fourth Street — a rickety 
wooden structure, one story high, hot to suffoca- 
tion in summer, and in winter justifying the tra- 
ditional smile : as cold as a barn. But the rent 
was low, and the light was good ; and Strahan, 
considering everything, thanked his stars that he 
had any roof at all, under which to sleep and to do 
his work ; for, like the better part of his fellow- 
craftsmen, Strahan was poorer than a church- 
mouse. 

Toward dusk one Christmas Eve Strahan sat 
among his plaster casts, prey to a swarm of blue 
devils — voracious parasites, that gnaw with pecu- 
liarly sharp teeth when the heart they are attack- 
ing happens to be associated with an empty 
stomach. Strahan’s stomach was empty, and so 


227 


228 


LILITH. 


was his pocket-book. He had made up his mind 
that he would have to go supperless to bed this 
Christmas Eve ; and now, while the dusk deepened, 
he sat alone in his studio, and mused upon many a 
cheerless theme. 

Of course ere long it got dark ; and then in due 
time the street-lamp in front of Strahan’s door 
was lighted. The light flared in through the win- 
dow, and sported fantastically with the white para- 
phernalia of the sculptor’s trade ; but Strahan 
paid no heed. In spirit he was far away, laboring 
through the slough of despond. His material 
envelope remained where he had left it, fixed and 
motionless, like its plaster neighbors. How long 
this state of things lasted, I do not know, nor does 
it matter. Long enough, I dare say, to chill the 
poor fellow’s heart through, and long enough, 
certainly, to chill his body through ; for, by and 
by, he shuddered and got up and crossed over to 
his stove. But his stove was cold ; the fire in it 
had gone out. Finding which to be the case, 
Strahan raised the lid of his coal-bin, and looked 
in. There was just light enough for him to see 
that his coal-bin was bare. Then he went to the 
door, opened it, and stepped into the street. 

The day had been mild — sky overcast, wind from 
the southeast, and atmosphere charged with luke- 


LILITH. 


229 


warm moisture. But now the wind had veered 
around into the northwest, and it was rapidly 
blowing up cold. The clouds had scattered ; the 
air had become dry and stinging ; a million stars 
were shining overhead ; in the unpaved roadway 
the mud was freezing. Strahan stepped into the 
street, and stayed there till his observations of the 
weather were complete. After that, he returned 
in-doors. 

The condition of affairs was grave. A cold 
snap and an empty coal-bin formed the most dis- 
astrous of combinations. Not that Strahan 
minded the cold much on his own account — he 
could move about and keep warm. But his Lilith 
— she upon whom he had lavished his thought, his 
love, his strength, his skill, for a year past — she 
who was the food of his ambition, the fountain of 
his hope — to her cold might mean nothing short 
of absolute ruin. She was still in clay — not yet 
quite ready to have her mold taken in plaster — 
and if the clay should freeze, as it surely would, in 
this refrigerator of a studio, unless there was a 
fire, if the clay should freeze — ! Strahan did not 
allow the appalling notion to assume definite 
shape. He picked up the tattered bushel-basket 
which in his domestic equipment answered for a 
coal-hod, donned his ancient wide-awake hat, and 


2SO 


LILITH. 


set out for the grocer’s shop. He already owed 
the grocer a snug sum for fuel ; and it never oc- 
curred to him that that worthy might prove un- 
willing to add another item to the account. 

The grocer sat comfortably behind his counter, 
reading a German newspaper and smoking a Ger- 
man pipe. As the bell over the door tinkled at 
Strahan’s entrance, the grocer lowered his news- 
paper, and glanced up. But when he saw who the 
new-comer was, and recognized the familiar out- 
lines of the coal-basket, he pursed his lips, knitted 
his brows, shook his head, and gesticulated depre- 
catingly with his hands. 

Though the significance of this pantomime was 
unmistakable, it failed of its effect. Strahan, not 
to be dismayed, drew a pencil from his pocket, 
took a scrap of wrapping-paper from the counter, 
scribbled a word or two upon it, and handed the 
paper to the grocer. 

“ Coals — please," was what Strahan had written. 

The grocer in his turn produced a pencil, and 
wrote by way of rejoinder, “ Got enny munny." 

Despite the absence of interrogation-point, 
Strahan construed this to be a question, and made 
a sign in the negative. 

Again the grocer shook his head and waved his 
hands. 


LILITH. 


231 


“ Do you mean,” wrote Strahan, “ that you will 
not trust me for a basketful ? ” 

The grocer nodded. 

“ Why not ? ” wrote Strahan. 

‘‘ $7-50/’ wrote the grocer, alluding doubtless to 
the amount of Strahan’s present score. 

“ I shall surely receive some money this coming 
week,” wrote Strahan, “ and then I’ll settle with 
you. You must let me have coals to-night, or else 
my work will be destroyed. Please let me have 
them.” 

Strahan’s eyes — eager as the eyes of dumb per- 
sons are wont to be — devoured the grocer’s face, 
as the latter scanned this appeal. 

For a third time the grocer shook his head and 
waved his hands. But this time he did more. He 
pointed impatiently toward the door. 

Strahan took the hint. Outside, he cast a 
covetous glance upon the grocer’s securely pad- 
locked coal-box. If he that looketh upon 
another’s goods to lust after them hath already 
committed robbery in his heart, Strahan at that 
moment sank to the level of a pickpocket. 

Back in his studio, he realized that the con- 
dition of affairs was now worse than grave. It 
was getting desperate. The wind kept freshen- 
ing, the cold intensifying. Strahan had not a 


232 


LILITH. 


penny in his purse, nor an object in his posses- 
sion which might be exchanged for money at the 
pawn-shop. To the other grocers of the quarter, 
he was a stranger. He could expect no credit 
from them. Yet it behooved him to kindle a fire 
at once, and to keep it going at least till morning. 
Otherwise — ! ” 

His Lilith stood in the center of the floor, 
shrouded in damp cloths. Impulsively, he put 
out his hand to caress her. Horror ! The cloths 
were already beginning to congeal ! 

He looked about the room. What had he there 
that might be converted into fire-wood ! Little 
enough, forsooth. The coal-basket itself — a chair 
with a broken back — a wash-stand ; these were all. 
His bedstead was of iron. But quick as thought 
these were reduced to splinters ; and into the 
stove they went. Strahan applied a match. Pres- 
ently a lusty fire was waking the echoes up the 
chimney. 

But this was merely a makeshift. Lilith’s peril 
was not averted : she had obtained a short re- 
prieve. An hour or two at the furthest, and the 
last of the embers would die, and the cold come 
swooping down again upon her, fiercer than before. 
But in an emergency, to gain time is something. 
In this hour or two much might be accomplished. 


LILITH, 


233 


Within a couple of hours, if all went well, Strahan 
would be able to reach the abode of his old pupil, 
Walter Everett, borrow a dollar from him, get 
back home, and, recruited by coals purchased with 
ready money, dare the elements to do their worst. 

Everett dwelt over in Sixty-third Street, east of 
Lexington Avenue. Strahan followed a diagonal 
course across Central Park. The full moon was 
set like a splendid topaz in the dark vault of the 
sky. The naked twigs of the trees, coated with 
ice, sparkled diamond-fashion in the wind. All 
the air shimmered with a frosty, mystic light. The 
cold was piercing, and Strahan was thinly clad ; 
but he walked briskly, and, between exercise and 
excitement, managed to keep tolerably warm. In 
less than five-and-forty minutes, he had pulled 
Everett’s bell. 

A maid answered it. 

Strahan fished a pad of paper from out the 
depths of his pocket, and with stiffened fingers 
scrawled, “ Is Mr. Walter Everett at home ?” 

The maid read the question, eyed the dumb and 
shabby visitor with suspicious curiosity, and at 
length said, “ Yes.” 

Strahan watched her lips and understood. 

“Then,” he wrote, “please say that Mr. Strahan 
would like to see him.” 


234 


LILITH. 


The maid left Strahan standing in the hall, and 
went upstairs. By and by, coming back, she 
signaled to him to enter the parlor. Then, 
having lit the gas, she handed him a note, and 
vanished. The note ran thus : 

“ Dear Strahan : Merry Xmas ! Delighted 
that you have hunted me up. Am dressing for a 
party. Will be with you inside of ten minutes. 
Meanwhile, sit down and make yourself monarch 
of all you survey. W. E.” 

Strahan sat down, and tried to be patient. Ten 
minutes ! And each of them infinitely precious ! 
He wondered how much headway his fire would 
make in ten minutes ! What if it should burn 
itself out sooner than he had counted ! What if, 
when he regained his studio, he should find that 
the dreaded mischief had been wrought ! The 
misgiving made his flesh creep. He strove to 
silence it, by rising and pacing restlessly to and 
fro. It was quite twenty minutes before Everett 
appeared. 

The pair shook hands. A sharp contrast they 
presented : the one appropriately shorn and 
shaven, in spotless linen and glossy broadcloth — a 
picture of health, prosperity, and well-being ; the 
other out at elbows, sallow, unkempt, ill-fed, with 
long disheveled hair and tangled beard — a typical 


LILITH. 


235 


pilgrim from the shady by-ways of Bohemia. At 
Munich they had been contemporaries, and Ever- 
ett had hired Strahan to give him a few lessons 
in modeling, though his regular courses were in 
painting. Everett had a rich father, but dubious 
talents. Strahan had plenty of talent, but no 
father. To Everett Art had been a mistress ; he 
had forsworn her, and espoused Law. To Stra- 
han Art was a wife ; he had remained faithful to 
her, up to the brink of starvation. True, Everett 
had furnished an aesthetic studio at the top of the 
house, where he still dabbled with his paints on 
Sundays. On Sundays Strahan put by his model- 
ing-tools, and sold walking-sticks to the crowd on 
Fifth Avenue : thereby acquiring the wherewithal 
to carry him through the week. 

Everett, who had learned to express himself 
with some fluency in the finger alphabet, demand- 
ed, “ Well, Strahan, how are you getting on ? ” 

“Oh, so-so,” was Strahan’s answer. “And 
you ? ” 

“First rate,” signed Everett. “Beastly cold 
outside, isn't it.” 

“ Bitter,” assented Strahan. 

“ Well, to-morrow being Christmas, it’s no more 
than we’re bound to expect. Hard at work, I 
suppose ? ” 


236 


LILITH. 


“ Yes. My Lilith is nearly finished." 

“ Good ! What are you going to have her done 
in — bronze or marble ? " 

“ Plaster for the present." 

“ Oh, well, she’ll keep. You can put her into 
bronze after you get rich. But why don’t you sit 
down ? Sitting’s as cheap as standing." 

“ No, thank you ; I won’t sit down. The fact 
is, I’m in something of a hurry. I called — I hate 
to bother you, but I need it very much — I called 
to ask if you would be kind enough to lend me a 
dollar." 

“Kind enough ! A dollar? Why, man, I’ll be 
delighted. I’ll lend you ten, if you want them." 

“ Oh, no, thanks. I shall have some money 
coming in next week. One will be ample, if you 
can spare it." 

“ Take this anyhow,’’ said Everett, and thrust 
upon the applicant a five-dollar bill. 

When Strahan bade Everett good-bye, which he 
did as soon as decency would permit, he saw by the 
clock on the parlor mantel that it was half-past 
nine — nearly an hour and a quarter, he calculated, 
since he had left his studio. Dread sat heavily 
upon his heart, as he pursued his march back. 
He ran till his breath gave out : then he lapsed 
into a rapid walk. It was colder than ever. The 


LILITH. 


237 


mercury, he guessed, had fallen to the neighbor- 
hood of zero. (The papers, next day, reported 
that it had fallen to below.) The moon itself 
looked pinched and shriveled. The moonlight 
seemed like a vaporized form of ice. Strahan’s 
breath condensed and froze upon his beard. His 
imagination acted as though bewitched. Ghastly 
visions of Lilith in ruins kept hovering before 
him, and turning his blood to water. These alter- 
nated with dazzling flashes of hope, which, by the 
force of contrast, only served to aggravate his 
suffering. 

Strahan had got about half-way through the 
park — was trudging along a narrow foot-path, 
hedged on either side by leafless bushes — when he 
became aware that he was not the only pedestrian 
abroad in this quarter of the world ; leading him 
by a rod or two, he could make out the form of a 
woman, clad in some light-colored stuff that flut- 
tered in the wind and caught a silvery luster from 
the moon. She, like himself, appeared to be hast- 
ening onward at top speed. His interest followed 
in the track of his attention, and he fell to specu- 
lating languidly upon the possible nature of his 
traveling-companion's errand. He wondered with 
passive curiosity what she looked like, and what 
her condition in life might be, and, whether she 


238 


LILITH. 


was poor and hungry and in distress, as he was. 
He noticed that, despite her haste, she advanced 
with somewhat uncertain footsteps, as though tired 
and weak. Once, indeed, she tottered, as if on 
the point of falling, but then recovered herself in 
time, and hurried on. By and by, a turn in the 
path shut her from his sight ; and speedily what- 
ever passing fancies she had aroused in his mind 
took themselves off. 

But pretty soon he too had reached the turn in 
the path, around which the woman had disap- 
peared. Mechanically he raised his eyes, and 
sought her figure. She was nowhere to be seen. 
He concluded that she had gained upon him, and 
got lost to view among the shadows ahead. Or 
had he unconsciously slackened his own pace, 
and lagged behind ? Now, he consciously quick- 
ened it. 

Next instant his foot struck violently against an 
obstacle on the ground — something soft and elas- 
tic, that would have felt like a mass of India-rub- 
ber, except for the strange, uncanny thrill which it 
sent darting up his leg. He looked downward. 
There before him, obliquely across the path, with 
the moon shining full upon her, lay — a woman : 
this was the obstacle that his foot had encoun- 
tered — the woman, he had no doubt, who, a mo- 


LILITH. 


239 


ment since, had been the subject of his idle specu- 
lations. 

She was an old woman, with thin, gray hair, and 
a white, peaked face, to which the moonlight lent 
a greenish tinge. She wore an unseasonable gown 
of faded yellow calico, and had no wrap. Her eyes, 
though wide open, appeared fixed and sightless. 
A tiny stream of blood trickled from her forehead. 
Manifestly she had fallen, and hurt herself in doing 
so, and swooned. She was plainly unconscious. 

A pitiable and sickening spectacle, all of which 
Strahan took in at a glance. And straightway 
there presented themselves for his selection the 
two horns of a maddening dilemma. 

If he should go about his business, and leave that 
woman alone there in that unfrequented foot-path, 
with the temperature such as it was, she would cer- 
tainly freeze to death ; and he would be morally 
as bad as her murderer. 

If, on the contrary, he should do what in com- 
mon humanity he felt bound to do — take her upon 
his shoulders and bear her away to a place of 
warmth and shelter — if he should do this, in the 
meantime the fatal cold would surely, ail too surely, 
force an entrance into his studio, and effect the 
irretrievable ruin of his Lilith. The destruction of 
Lilith would mean to Strahan not merely a year 


240 


LILITH. 


lost from his life ; it would mean the extinction of 
the beauty that he had lovingly and laboriously 
wrought out of nothingness ; it would mean the 
blight of his sweetest hopes, the overthrow of his 
proudest castles in the air ; it would mean — God 
knows there is no telling all that it would mean. 
An artist’s work is dearer to him than his dearest 
friend. It is breath of his nostrils, bone of his 
bone. To Strahan the destruction of Lilith would 
mean a pound of flesh cut nearest to his heart. 

This was the dilemma that stared him mercilessly 
in the face, and woke a fierce, despairing pain in 
his breast. He begrudged even the time that was 
needed for its consideration. Every second was 
priceless to him now. And yet, he had to choose 
— choose between his darling Lilith and this un- 
known old woman. 

Well, he thought he had made up his mind. 
The woman — she was old, she was poor, she was 
probably of slight value in the world — her death 
could not much matter — anyhow, her mishap was 
not his fault— wherefore should he treat it as his 
concern ? — perhaps somebody else would pass that 
way before it was too late ; perhaps — He threw out 
his arm, as if to ward off his more humane im- 
pulses, and turned his back upon her, and strode 
resolutely forward. 


LILITH. 


241 


But he did not go far. A few yards, and he 
halted. His better instincts had revolted. There 
was a short but mighty battle. Strahan faced about. 

No ; come what might, he could not find it in 
him to go away, and leave her to die there alone. 
Lilith’s death-warrant was sealed. He faced 
about, recovered in a breathing-space the distance 
he had gained, whipped off his coat, wrapped it 
close around the old woman’s body, lifted her 
tenderly in his arms, and started upon the shortest 
cut that he knew of, out of the park. 

His progress was slow. The wind blew a gale 
in his teeth, and made it hard work to breathe. 
The old woman was an awkward burden. He had 
to stop every now and then, to shift her position 
and get a better purchase. Besides, cold, hunger, 
and anxiety had told upon his physical resources ; 
and he was not a muscular fellow at his best. His 
heart felt like a dead weight in his bosom. The 
pain in it had given place to a numb ache. His 
mental faculties, also, seemed to have lost their 
edge. His mind had fed upon the thought of 
Lilith’s doom, until it could hold no more, and 
had sunken into a torpor. He labored along, con- 
scious of little save his bodily discomfort. The 
wind cut his cheeks ; his arms were cramped ; and 
he had to pant for breath. 


242 


LILITH. 


But at last he left the park behind him — came 
out upon Eighth Avenue at Eighty-fifth Street. 
He looked up and down for a lighted window. 
There was none in sight. The few, straggling 
shops of the neighborhood had been closed. 
Where should he go ? What should he do ? 

All at once he remembered that there was a 
police station in Eighty-seventh Street. He quick- 
ened his gait, and ere long had reached the 
station house. 

The hands of the station-house clock marked a 
quarter toward eleven when Strahan entered. 
They marked a quarter past eleven before he got 
away. To begin with, the officer in charge con- 
sumed an eternity in telegraphing for an ambu- 
lance ; and then another eternity was wasted while 
he required Strahan to write out a statement of 
exactly where, when, and how he had fallen in 
with the woman, and to subscribe and swear to it 
with due solemnity. 

But finally Strahan was free. He did not tarry to 
learn the extent of the old woman’s injuries. She 
was still unconscious, when he left. As he cleared 
the station-house vestibule a terrible hope sprang 
to life within him. He had not been absent more 
than three hours altogether. Perhaps — perhaps, 
his fire had lasted longer than he had thought it 


LILITH. 


243 


would ! Certainly the fire’s warmth had out- 
lasted the fire itself. Perhaps it was not yet too 
late ! 

He ran. Hope endowed him with fresh vigor. 
He ran at break-neck speed up Eighth Avenue. 
He turned into Ninety-fourth Street. Yes — thank 
God ! — the grocer’s shop on the corner was still 
open. Into the grocer’s shop, like a madman, he 
dashed. A few frantic gestures, a fluttering five- 
dollar bill— and again he was in the street, now 
bearing a great bucketful of coal and kindling- 
wood. 

But before his studio door he halted and hesi- 
tated. Hope and courage suddenly forsook him. 
He was afraid to enter — afraid to lift the curtain 
and confront the truth. The probabilities had 
now reversed themselves in his mind. Three 
hours, three mortal hours ! In that time what a 
vast tragedy the cold had had leisure to enact. 
His eyesight penetrated the solid wall of the house 
and beheld within a scene of nameless havoc. But 
his hesitation was short-lived. It yielded to the 
stolidity of despair. He unlocked the door and 
crossed the threshold. As he did so a gust of wind 
extinguished the flame in the lamp-post on the 
curbstone. 

It was pitch dark inside, and, as Strahan took 


244 


LILITH. 


quick note, colder even than without — cold in a 
more aggressive and assertive way. But he did 
not falter. He had resolved to face the worst, 
whatever it might be ; and at once he set about 
doing so. 

He scratched a match, waited for the sulphur to 
burn away, then lighted a candle fastened in a 
rough candlestick that he himself had modeled of 
clay. He watched the flame leap up, die down, 
again struggle up, and become clear and steady. 
He raised the candle aloft, fortified himself with a 
deep breath, turned around, and looked at Lilith. 

To all appearances she remained exactly as he 
had left her — unchanged — a bundle of white 
cloths. He stretched forth his hand and placed 
it upon her shoulder. The cloths were frozen as 
hard as iron. 

These must be thawed out, first of all. 

He went to his stove, and felt of it. The fire 
had evidently been dead a long while. The stove 
was stone-cold. He emptied into it the contents 
of his bucket, and touched the mass with his 
candle-flame. By and bye the heat began to tell. 
Lilith’s cerements began to melt. 

One by one, he stripped her of them. At last 
she stood before him, unveiled. 

A superb piece of work, indeed, she was. Stra- 


LILITH. 


245 


han had followed Rossetti’s interpretation of the 
myth, and chosen to represent her at the moment 
of her expulsion from Eden. Her opulent hair 
flowed in wild disorder down her back. Her wide 
open eyes, her parted lips, her clenched fingers, 
her attitude at once terrified and defiant, all com- 
bined to express the despair and the fury of the 
scorned and forsaken woman. Paradise lay be- 
hind her, before her the unknown world, from 
which she shrank aghast. Her exquisitely modeled 
limbs were rigid with fear. All the sensuousness, 
all the passion, had vanished from her face : its 
beautiful features were eloquent of the woe, the 
hatred, and the horror that were burning in her 
heart. 

But now, what a pitiful wreck she was ! At the 
touch of the cold, she had become a grim carica- 
ture of herself. The clay in freezing had, of 
course, expanded and contracted unequally. A 
deep fissure at the corner of her mouth stretched 
like a sabre-cut across her cheek, and gave her the 
semblance of grotesque laughter. Another fissure, 
starting just above her breast, ran zig-zag down 
her body, and disclosed the iron supports within. 
A third encircled her waist, like a girdle. Here 
and there the surface had, begun to peel off in 
scales. 


246 


LILITH. 


Strahan, for a while, stood petrified, staring at 
her with dull smitten eyes. Then he flung himself 
upon the floor ; and, dumb though he was, a deep 
moan burst from his throat. 

The fire roared in the stove. The air of the 
room grew warmer and warmer. Clay in thawing 
undergoes a process of disintegration. Presently, 
with a soft thud, Lilith flattened herself out upon 
the ground. 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ * ♦ ♦ 

In a letter written some ten months later Stra- 
han says : “ At first I thought I should go mad. 

Weeks passed before I was able to begin to work. 
I tried again and again to get to work ; but it was 
no use. It seemed as though my powers had left 
me, never to come back. My hand had forgotten 
its cunning. I received some money about this 
time, and made up my mind to change my studio. 
I got settled in a new one toward the end of 
March, and started over again. Useless. My 
clay acted like a thing possessed. I was getting 
desperate, losing my self-respect. What a poor, 
incompetent, worthless thing I was, I thought. I 
wished I was dead. Why I did not kill myself I 
do not know. . . . But finally, late in April, I 
started the figure again. This time my skill 
seemed to be born anew. Ever since, I have been 


LILITH. 


247 


hard, very hard, at work, so that within six weeks 
more I shall have the clay-model finished and 
ready for the caster. . . Now what seemed less 
than a year ago an overwhelming calamity turns 
out to be a blessing ; for the new figure is vastly 
better than its predecessor — abler, more truthful, 
more sympathetic. So, the old woman was my 
benefactress, after all.” 

Strahan’s Lilith was exhibited the following 
spring. It made him famous. 


MRS. ORMIZON’S DINNER PARTY. 


I N Paris, shortly after our wedding — which was 
celebrated there in the autumn of 1885 — “ My 
dear,” said old Dr. Marsac to Mrs. Ormizon, “ I 
felicitate that lucky husband of yours from the 
bottom of my heart. Marriage, they say truly, is a 
lottery ; but he has drawn a prize of the first order. 
He has obtained a wife at once young, witty, and 
beautiful ; and I can promise him, moreover, that 
he will find you docile and obedient — virtues of 
the greatest rarity in young women nowadays. But 
ah, my Denise, I who know you from your cradle, 
I must warn him that you are not in the least 
practical. A sympathic friend, a companion per- 
fectly amiable and gentle, a spouse to do him 
honor in the world — all this he will possess in you. 
But a good manager, a skillful housekeeper — alas, 
no ! You are too poetical, too romantic, too much 
of a dreamer. The material details of life are en- 
tirely lacking in interest for you.” 

The portly, purple-faced old gentleman smiled 
provokingly as he delivered this bit of persiflage, 
248 


MA^S. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 249 

which was also his valedictory, for we took ship 
for America three days later. The reproach sank 
deep into Denise’s soul, and rankled there. No 
sooner were we alone than, giving her head an 
indignant little toss, “ Ah,” she cried, “ I should 
like to show him ! If only he would some time 
come to New York, I would show him whether I 
am good a manager, a good housekeeper — whether 
I am practical, indeed ! ” 

“ But he never will, you know,” said I. Your 
countrymen never travel.” 

I proved to be but a sorry prophet. Two years 
and a few months had elapsed when Denise re- 
ceived a letter from this unprecedented French- 
man, announcing that he, with his wife and 
daughter, had set forth upon a journey round the 
world ! “We shall reach New York toward the 
middle of January, to stop there for a week or so 
before proceeding to cross the continent. We sail 
from Havre aboard the steamship La Touraine'* 
La Touraine was spoken off Sandy Hook on 
Wednesday evening, January the i8th. I learned 
as much from the next morning’s paper. Thurs- 
day afternoon Denise and I paid our respects to 
the travelers at their hotel, the doctor having 
named the one at which he intended to put up. 

“ Eh bien^ moncher^^ he asked of me, after he had 


250 MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 

expatiated at sufficient length upon the horrors of 
the sea voyage, “ and the little girl, how does she 
make out ? She is always beautiful, always full of 
spirit, and younger, I avow, than ever. But," — 
oscillating his hands upon his wrists, lifting his 
shoulders till they engulfed his neck, and elevating 
one eyebrow while he depressed the other — “ but 
the minage ? The domestic economy ? The affairs 
of the house ? . . . Ah ! poor man, I comprehend 
perfectly your lot. That good Denise was never 
practical. She could never interest herself in the 
material details of life." 

I hastened to assure him that I stood in need 
of no commiseration. As for my lot, none 
could be happier. The minage in general runs as 
smoothly, as regularly, as if impelled by clockwork. 
The domestic economy — my word of honor. Mon- 
sieur le Docteur, Denise has the genius of a 
financier." 

He shook his head incredulously. He eyed me 
with a perplexed and wondering gaze, as who 
should say, “ MaiSj comment done ! What kind of 
man is this ? " He muttered, — with an intonation 
that signified, “ It’s quite impossible ; but polite- 
ness requires that I should pretend to believe 
you," — he muttered, Tiens t Vraiment? pat 
m' /tonne.** 


MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 251 

For the remainder of our visit, with pursed lips 
and knitted brow, he seemed to be revolving the 
anomaly in his mind. Just before we left, his face 
lightened. He had evidently found a solution. 
Putting his arm through mine, and leading me a 
little to one side, Ah ! it’s because you’re still 
madly in love — c*est que vous Hes ioujours follement 
amour eux^' he remarked. 

When we got home, Denise sat down at her 
irriting-desk, and for quite an hour was busy with 
pen and paper, inking her fingers, disheveling her 
hair, and manifesting all the other symptoms of a 
feminine soul in the fine frenzy of literary compo- 
sition. In the end, she said, “ There ! I have 
written a letter to Dr. Marsac, asking him and 
Madame and Marie to come and dine with us on 
Monday evening. I have written him the very 
nicest letter I possibly could ; and now I will get 
him up such a dinner ! Now he shall see whether 
I am practical or not.” 

Let me read it,” said I. 

Oh, I have sealed it,” said she. And now 
you must run out and post it.” 

Herein, I tell her, lay the cause of all her sub- 
sequent trouble. If she had been mindful of her 
obligations as a married woman, and shown her 
epistle to me, her husband, for inspection and ap- 


252 MRS, ORMIZON^S DINNER PARTY. 

proval, before sealing it, the humiliating catastro- 
phe which I am going to describe would never 
have come to pass. But she pursued her own 
undutiful course, and retribution very properly 
overtook her. The spirit of poetic justice has not 
finally departed from this world, after all. 

Well, in due course of the mails a letter of ac- 
ceptance reached us from the Marsacs ; and then, 
bright and early Monday morning, Mrs. Ormizon 
opened the campaign preliminary to the engage- 
ment of the evening. She hired a charwoman to 
come and assist our maid-of-all-work in the task 
of putting our flat in spick and span condition. 
Of course, they began by turning it topsy-turvy, 
and rendering it as uninhabitable as an ice-box, 
with cold draughts chasing each other from win- 
dow to window, and dust fairly saturating the air. 
She pressed poor Dr. Gluck — Isabel B. Gluck, 
M.D., our boarder — into the service, and kept her 
busy cleaning and arranging bric-a-brac all the 
forenoon. She routed me out of my study, and 
had that apartment swept. Then she marched 
me back into it, with directions to clear up the lit- 
ter on my writing-table — an Herculean labor, for 
there lay the pell-mell accumulations of I know 
not how many months. It was in vain that I re- 
belled, protested, entreated ; in vain that I had 


MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 253 

recourse to her native tongue, reminding her that 
“ Souvent un beau de'sorde est un effet de Tart”; 
in vain that I appealed against being constrained 
to lose an entire day’s work — which meant the ad- 
dition of a precise fraction of my income to the 
expense entailed by the dinner itself. She was 
relentless. Clear up your table, sir. I cannot 
allow people to imagine that chaos like that is tol- 
erated within my jurisdiction." She forced us to 
eat our luncheon an hour earlier than usual, when 
we had no appetite ; and a hasty, scrappy lunch- 
eon it was at that. Then, as the dinner was to be 
served an hour later than usual — namely, at seven 
instead of six — we passed — at least, I passed — a 
long, miserable, hungry afternoon. At about two 
o’clock Denise marshaled her corps of assistants, 
Dr. Gluck, the charwoman, the salaried domestic, 
and withdrew into the kitchen. There they re- 
mained in secret session until after dark ; and 
thence from time to time escaped suggestive 
whiffs of cookery, tantalizing enough to a fam- 
ished man. 

All this while, be it remembered, I was engaged 
over my writing-table, working hard to raze the 
paper mountain range that it supported ; a range 
of very composite formation ; loose pages of man- 
uscript, sheets of proof, scraps of memoranda, let- 


254 MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 

ters answered and unanswered, bills ditto — in a 
word, all sorts and conditions of paper, not ex- 
cepting cigarette paper, tumultuously heaped to- 
gether, which had to be examined, sorted, pre- 
served, destroyed. I had at last finished the busi- 
ness, and was solacing myself with a game of 
patience, when Denise appeared suddenly in the 
doorway, and, beckoning with her finger, pro- 
nounced a single word : “Come.” She led me to 
the threshold of the dining-room, and, pointing to 
the table, pronounced another : “ Look.” Her 
voice thrilled with pride, and well it might ; for — 
what with its snowy linen, its sparkling glass and 
silver, its centerpiece piled high with fruit, its 
vases full of roses, all glowing in the soft light of 
seven candles, fixed in a beautiful old-fashioned 
candelabrum that my wife had inherited from her 
French grandfather — the table was indeed a lovely 
sight. After I had looked my fill, and expressed 
my admiration by word and deed, she, still blushing 
from the operation, said, “ Now go dress.” 

At five minutes before seven we assembled in the 
parlor, Dr. Gluck, Denise, and I. The guests 
might arrive at any instant now. We had on our 
best clothes, of course, and we sat around in an 
uneasy, solemn, expectant silence. It was the lull 
between the storms. After the fatigues of the 


MRS. ORMIZON^S DINNER PARTY. 2$$ 

day, and prior to the fatigues of the evening, in 
these few quiet moments we would rest, we would 
recuperate, we would store up strength and cour- 
age for the fray. But, as I say, we were preter- 
naturally solemn, and not perfectly at ease. I 
hate my dress-suit, and am never happy in it. I 
had to keep wriggling my neck, to relieve the dis- 
comfort occasioned to it by my high standing col- 
lar. Miss Gluck procured a book from the table, 
and made believe she was reading in it. I could 
see that she was only waiting. Denise got up and 
moved about the room, giving a touch here and 
there to the draperies. I followed her with my 
glance, and thought how well she was looking. 
She wore a gown of wine-colored silk, trimmed 
with black lace, exceedingly becoming to her pale 
complexion ; lights like stars shone in the depths 
of her brown eyes ; and through the dark coils of 
her hair was shot an arrow of translucent amber. 

Whir-r-r — ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, 
ding — seven. The clock that Dr. Gluck had 
given us for a wedding present briskly rang out 
the hour. 

The doctor turned a page in the book she was 
pretending to read. Denise dropped upon a 
chair. I drew a long breath, and gave my neck 
one last lingering twist. We all became a trifle 


256 MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 

more solemn, a trifle more rigid than before. The 
decisive moment was at hand. From second to 
second we awaited the clang of the door-bell. 
The silence was intense. You could have heard 
a mouse walk across the carpet. The clock had 
the floor undisputedly to itself. It ticked cheer- 
fully. 

“Stephen, your necktie is crooked," said 
Denise. 

I hurried to a mirror and adjusted it. Then I 
resumed my seat ; and the stillness was restored. 
Tick-tack, tick-tack, went the clock. 

“Well, I wonder why they don't come," ven- 
tured Dr. Gluck, at five minutes past the hour. 

“ Oh, we must give them some minutes’ grace," 
Denise responded. “French people are never so 
punctual as others." 

“ And then, besides," I added, “ they’re stran- 
gers in a strange land. They may have some 
trouble finding the place." 

“Why, they’ll come in a carriage, won’t they?" 
the doctor queried. “ They’re awful swells, you 
know." 

After which we relapsed into our former silence. 

At ten minutes past seven, “ Well, it is funny they 
don’t come," Denise admitted. “ I hope they have 
not lost their way.’’ And she went to the bay- 


MRS. ORMIZON 'S DINNER PAR TY. 257 

window, and stood there looking down into the 
street. 

By a quarter past the hour, we had all become 
rather fidgety. 

“ I propose that we sit down and eat our dinner,” 
said the master of the house. ‘‘ IVe had nothing 
to eat since noon, and I didn’t get anything to brag 
of even then. I shall die of starvation if I have to 
go hungry much longer. The first commandment 
in the Book of Etiquette is to observe religiously 
the hour and minute of a dinner. These people 
deserve a lesson. Shall I tell Mary to put on the 
soup ?” 

But, of course, the master of the house was 
promptly snubbed, and his proposition contempt- 
uously scouted, by his female subjects. 

At twenty minutes past seven we got a false alarm. 
We heard the click of the elevator door, out in the 
hall. That meant that the elevator had stopped at 
our floor. “ Ah, at last, here they are,” was our 
common thought ; and we quickly resumed onr 
company manners, which we had some time since 
put aside. In breathless suspense we anticipated 
the ringing of the door-bell. But time passed, and 
it didn’t ring. Gradually we sank back into our 
former state of moral relaxation. 

There are few experiences in this life more try- 


2 5 8 M/?S. ORMIZON ’ S DINNER PA R T Y. 

ing to the nerves than waiting. Everybody can 
bear witness to the truth of that assertion. Even 
under the most favorable conditions waiting is bad 
enough. But waiting while the pangs of hunger 
gnaw your vitals, and odors of delicious edibles 
spice the air, it is too much for flesh and blood. 
My mouth was watering. The void within me 
ached. ‘‘Well, I can’t and wo7i't stand this any 
longer,” I broke out at half-past seven. “ I shall 
either go mad or die. Now, then, Mrs. Ormizon, it’s 
for you to choose. Do you wish to see me fall dead 
at your feet, or become a raving maniac under your 
very eyes, or will you have the dinner served at 
once ?” 

“ Oh, no,” poor Mrs. Ormizon pleaded, “ we 
must wait a little longer. But why do zey not 
come ? Sawm sing must ’ave ’appened.” 

Ordinarily my wife’s foreign accent is scarcely 
perceptible, but at moments of emotional disturb- 
ance — when she is distressed, delighted, angered, 
bored, deeply touched, especially amused — when- 
ever, in brief, her emotional equilibrium is in any 
wise deranged — it betrays itself. At these junc- 
tures she has difficulty with her th’s ; and, as is 
frequently the case with French people, her as- 
pirates develop an alarming cockney-like tendency 
to misplace themselves. 


M/^S, ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 259 

Well, I think they’re unpardonably rude,” put 
in Dr. Gluck. She had discarded her book, and 
her foot was beating a tattoo upon the carpet. 

“Well, I’ll wait just five minutes longer, and not 
another second,” I concluded, taking out my watch 
and holding it open in my hand. 

But at the expiration of those five minutes Den- 
ise wrung from me five minutes more. And so, to 
cut a long story short, so it went on, in stretches 
of five minutes each, until the clock struck eight. 
Meanwhile, the vital question, “ Why don’t they 
come ? ” we had debated from every point of view. 
Of course something must have happened ; but 
what ? And why didn’t they send us word of any 
sort ? We exhausted ourselves in futile specula- 
tions. Possibly they had lost our address ; that 
was exceedingly improbable, for to our certain 
knowledge they had at least three separate copies 
of it — Denise’s note of invitation, her visiting- 
card, and my visiting-card, not to mention letters 
containing it which they had received before they 
left France ; but, even assuming that they had lost 
it, they needed only to look in the Directory to find 
it again. Our frame of mind was anything but 
amiable. It is well that they did not hear some of 
the remarks we made about them. 

“ Oh, dear,” sighed madame at the eighth 


26 o m/^S. ORMIZON'S dinner party. 

stroke, “ I suppose it is useless to wait any 
longair, but — but I sink — it is perfectly cruelle of 
zem.” 

There were tears in her voice, and no wonder. 
Her disappointment must have been bitter indeed. 
So much labor lost ! So much hope, so much am- 
bition, come to naught ! It was too bad. Our 
hearts were moved to pity — Dr. Gluck’s and mine. 
The doctor tried to comfort her. “Never mind, 
dear. They're the losers, you know.” But her 
face continued to wear a look of sorrow and vexa- 
tion ; while I, contemplating Dr. Gluck’s observa- 
tion by the light of the facts, thought in my sordid 
soul how false was the old commonplace, the loser 
pays. We passed gloomily through the folding- 
doors that led from the parlor into the dining- 
room, and silently arranged ourselves around the 
table. 

Ah, but the dinner ! It is not for nothing that 
Gallic blood pours through the veins of Mrs. 
Ormizon. The dinner was superb, it was exquis- 
ite, it was a dream, it was a triumph of art. 
Nothing gastronomical could have surpassed it, 
unless its own younger self. An hour earlier it 
had doubtless been a degree lovelier ; but even at 
its advanced age, when the fire and flavor of youth 
were perhaps somewhat spent, it was a dinner to 


MRS. ORMIZON ’ S DINNER PARTY. 261 

consume with rapture, to remember with wistful 
regret. Its excellence lay not in its substance 
chiefly, but in the indescribable atmosphere that 
attached to it, in the magical and impalpable 
bouquet that it had caught from Mrs. Ormizon’s 
fingers. It was not exclusively a French dinner ; 
it was cosmopolitan. The culinary science of 
Germany, that of the Jewry, and that of America, 
as well as that of France, were impartially repre- 
sented ; yet the whole had a delectable French 
twang. To name its constituent parts would serve 
no purpose. Suppose that I wished to convey to 
you an adequate conception of the witchery of a 
certain beautiful woman whom I know, and to in- 
spire in your bosom the worshipful admiration 
which I deem her due ; by printing here a cata- 
logue of her features — by informing you that she 
possesses hair, a forehead, eyes, a nose, lips, a 
chin, etc., etc. — should I accomplish my aim ? 
Why then should I bewilder you with an enumera- 
tion of the good things that went to make up Mrs. 
Ormizon’s dinner ? To say that we began with 
the succulent oyster, and in smooth and leisurely 
succession proceeded through sardellen paste on 
toast, broth of clams, broiled lobster, sweet-bread 
patties, filet of beef with fresh mushrooms, string 
beans, canvas-back duck, salad with vinaigre h 


262 M/^S. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 

Vestragon^ Bavarian cream, to the fruit, cheese, 
coffee, and cognac — would be to debase that din- 
ner from the plane of the sublime to the plane of 
the commonplace. It was a fluent melody, sweetly 
played in tune — piano, crescendo, forte, diminu- 
endo, finale — to which the wines contributed an 
harmonious counterpoint — though Mrs. Ormizon 
would only let me open the claret and the Rhine 
wine, whereas her original project had included 
sherry and champagne besides. But my poor pen 
falters. To appreciate the repast in question, one 
must have eaten it. It carried life to the body, 
cheer to the soul, while it imbued the mind with a 
high and serene optimism. It was, moreover, a 
monument to the genius and energy of my prac- 
tical little wife. If Dr. Marsac had kept his ap- 
pointment, he would have been compelled to 
swallow his doubts along with his oysters. But 

What are words said for 
At all about it, 

If he it was made for 
Could do without it ? 

The miscreant failed us. And Denise’s exhibi- 
tion of her practical abilities was made in vain. 

Miss Gluck and I, however, did it full justice. 
We mellowed, we expanded, we succumbed com- 
pletely to its fascination ; and even Denise cheered 


MRS. ORMIZON ’ S DINNER PARTY. 263 

up a little by and by. We made no secret of our 
enthusiasm, and that of course pleased her. Then, 
anyhow, beatitude is infectious ; and she wouldn’t 
have been human if she had remained entirely 
wretched. 


We took for granted, with unquestioning con- 
fidence, that the first post next morning would 
bring us a letter of explanation from the delin- 
quents. When the first post came and went, and 
did nothing of the kind — well, we could scarcely 
believe our senses. We looked each other in the 
face with dull, astonished eyes. This, we agreed, 
was unaccountable. It passed understanding. 
Unless they were all of them dead, no excuse 
could be conceived for such barbaric rudeness. 
We were prepared to be very charitable, but the 
charity of a saint could not have withstood a shock 
like this. 

Well, I declare ! ” said Dr. Gluck. 

‘‘ The next time we go out of our way to please 
those people, I guess they’ll know it,” said I. 

Something very serious must certainly be the 
matter,” said Denise. I think that you, Stephen, 
had better go and call upon them, and find out.” 

“Well, I must say,” I expostulated, “that’s a 
charming fancy. I lost a whole day’s work yester- 


264 MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 

day on their account, and now you propose, in cold 
blood, that I should lose another. You know, if I 
go out in the morning, my repose of mind is quite 
upset, and I can’t do any work to speak of when I 
come back. No, thank you, ma’am. Little as you 
may realize it, my work is of some slight conse- 
quence to this family’s welfare. Besides, it’s their 
place to communicate with us. Why, they've vio- 
lated the primary canons of good breeding. In 
common dignity we can’t make the first move.” 

“Well, / can not go,” Denise said, “for I’ve 
arranged to have a dressmaker here all day, and I 
can not leave her. She will need me to oversee 
her work, and to try on my gown.” 

Dr. Gluck, always fertile in expedients, sug- 
gested : “You might send a note by a messenger.” 

“ No,” I returned, putting down my foot, “ I go 
back to the ground of our dignity. The first ad- 
vance must come from them. They’ve treated us 
with the utmost discourtesy. I never in my life 
heard of anything worse. It’s for them now to 
volunteer their apologies, not for us to seek 
them.” 

“ But, suppose they are ill,” Denise feebly sub- 
mitted. 

“ It’s not probable that they’re all three ill at 
once,” the irate head of the family retorted. “And 


MRS. ORMIZON ’ 5 DINNER PARTY. 265 

unless they’re all of them in the very article of 
death, they could manage to get us word. . . . 
Hello ! ” I cried, “ Listen to this. This looks as 
though they were ill, don’t it ? ” 

I had picked up the morning paper, and in 
glancing over it my eye had been caught by a 
paragraph which I now proceeded to read aloud. 
It proclaimed to the world that, on the previous 
evening, the Cercle de St. Denis — “ an association 
composed of the wealthiest Frenchmen resident in 
New York " — had given a dinner at Delmonico’s, 
“ in honor of the distinguished physician. Dr. 
Hippolyte Marsac, of the Institute, and his wife 
and daughter, who are at present sojourning in 
this city. ... In reply to the reporter’s inquiry. 
What he thought of America ? the doctor said — ” 
etc., etc. 

“ There ! ” I concluded. “ That’s their excuse 
for giving us the go-by ? There’s a specimen of 
French politeness for you. How do you like that, 
Mrs. Ormizon ? ” 

“ Oh, it is dreadful, dreadful,” poor little Denise 
confessed. 

“ It’s perfectly outrageous,” Dr. Gluck declared 
energetically. 

And therewith the debate ended. The day 
passed. Feeling that we had been wantonly in- 


266 MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 

jured and insulted, and nursing a resentment deep 
and bitter, we did not go near the Marsacs ; and 
never a line came from them. At half-past six in 
the evening dinner was announced, and we sat 
down to the funeral baked meats. 

It was a forlorn-looking table, a scene of ruin 
and devastation. At one end, stark upon a plat- 
ter, lay a cold canvas-back duck. At the opposite 
end, the wreck of a filet of beef, warmed over, 
bore melancholy witness to the glory of a vanished 
day. Some cold sweetbread patties occupied a 
plate in front of Dr. Gluck. The only novelty 
was a dish of mashed potatoes. Yesterday’s 
flowers hung their heads with an air of sheepish 
dejection. So shame-faced, so disreputable, so 
katzenjdnimerischy was their appearance, you 
couldn’t avoid the fancy that they had been on an 
uproarious spree the night before. The center- 
piece of fruit, with great gaps in it here and there, 
looked as if it had passed through a bombardment. 
As a whole, the table was at once a tragic and a 
comic sight. We were cracking jokes at its ex- 
pense, and laughing over it, when the door-bell 
rang. 

Who can that be ? ” questioned Denise. 

“ Oh, nobody, at this hour,” answered I. “Prob- 
ably a letter.” 


MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER PARTY. 267 

You’d better close the doors into the parlor,” 
she suggested. 

“ Nonsense,” I said, glancing at my watch. 

You don’t suppose anybody’s going to call at 
ten minutes before seven.” 

So the folding-doors that connect the two rooms 
remained wide open. Next instant — conceive our 
sensations if you can — next instant, gazing through 
those open folding-doors, we saw enter the parlor 
from the hallway — Dr. Marsac, followed by his 
wife and daughter ! Clad in full evening costume, 
correct, smiling, complacent, they had evidently 
come to dine with us. Horror of horrors ! they 
had mistaken the day. 

Denise gave a shriek. I sprang upon my feet 
and bounded forward. Dr. Gluck began to giggle. 
Next thing I knew, Dr. Marsac had seized hold of 
one of Denise’s hands and one of mine, and was 
covering us with his effusive French greetings, 
while madame and mademoiselle simpered in the 
background. 

Ah, mon cher ! Ah, Denise! Here we are, 
you see. Mais^ teneZy how you are well placed 
here ! An interior completely charming ! N'est 
ce pas, Hortense ? JSTesi ce pas, Marie? And this 
Denise, my faith, she becomes from more to more 
young, from more to more beautiful, from day to 


268 MRS. ORM/ZON’S DINNER PARTY. 

day. Ah, my good Ormizon, how you are happy 
to possess such a wife ! Allans^ you permit me to 
embrace her, is it not ? Mais comment done ! She 
weeps.’* 

It was true. Denise had begun to cry. The 
Doctor started back in dismay, and looked to me 
for an explanation. But the situation was beyond 
me. I was nonplused. I had lost my wits. I 
knew not what to do or say. 

Oh, why — why — do you stand there like that ? ” 
sobbed Denise. “ Why don’t you tell him ? Tell 
him — tell him ! ” 

“ Well, Doctor,” I began, the fact is, there’s a 
mistake. You see, it was last night that you were 
to have done us the honor of dining here, not to- 
night ; and the result is, you comprehend, that we 
are not perfectly prepared. We — ” 

Misdricorde ! ” cried the Doctor, confusion 
and consternation mantling his purple face. “ Is 
it possible that we have committed a blunder so 
terrible as that? Hortense,” sternly addressing 
his wife, “ how does this happen ? ” 

For reply, Hortense, without speaking, plunged 
her hand into her pocket, whence she presently 
drew it forth, holding a letter. The letter she 
opened, and passed to her husband — pointing to a 
certain line. He took it and read ; and as he 


MRS. ORMIZON'S DINNER FAR TV. 269 

read, first relief, then joy, then infinite amusement, 
broke like sunshine over his brow. Shaking with 
laughter, “Ah, that excellent Denise,” he ex- 
claimed, “ read what she has written.” 

He gave me the letter. I read. Denise had 
written Tuesday, January the 24th, and then she 
had gone to work and got up her dinner for Mon- 
day, January the 23d ! 

“ Ah ! my sweet Denise,” remarked the Doctor, 
as he devoured a slice of the cold canvas-back, 
“ it is as I have always said : you are good, you 
are beautiful, you are full of wit ; but practical — 
alas ! my Denise — no, not exactly.” 

THE END. 




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